O America
by RobinRocks
Summary: UKUS/USUK. His history in England's embrace. Multichaptered oneshot.
1. I: I Am A Nation

ONE HUNDREDTH FANFIC!1111!111!1111!

Multi-chaptered oneshot?

Allow me to explain – this began as a one-shot. In many ways, it IS a one-shot as the "chapters" are more like segments to break up the bigger picture into readable chunks rather than being deliberate chapters to tell a narrative. I had to break it up because it was like 45 pages of Size 8 Verdana all together and I didn't want to scare people off it, haha.

So, yes, this is my one hundredth fanfic. I have been slaving over it for about a month and a half. Not only does it commemorate my hundredth fic to be posted on the site, but it also commemorates my last day in the United States! I have been over here since September on a year abroad programme as part of my English Literature and American Studies degree and I thought that a fic about America would therefore be the most fitting thing I could possibly post. I got into the _Hetalia_ fandom over here, fangirled over it with **Narroch**, **jesusof-suburbia2o2o** and some other awesome peeps I have met through _Hetalia_ at anime cons and all of my _Hetalia_ fics have been written on this side of the Atlantic with the tiny exception of _Fröhliche Weihnachten_, which I wrote over Christmas when I went home to Britain. And I think this fic has a lot of what I have learned over here in it, so...

Oh, and perhaps a bit of _America: The Story of Us_. Which was made of epic win.

Some notes on the structure:

**One:** It has the perspectives of both America and England, uses all three types of narration (first person, second person and third person) and uses two tenses (past and present).

**Two:** Some segments will seem like they focus more on England than on America. This is because they reference things which happened to Britain as opposed to the US – however, because in those parts, America's _reaction_ to what is happening to England is the important part. I felt that to just focus on aspects of American history wouldn't give him too much character development...

**Three:** A lot of this fic is literal. So sometimes things sound like they are metaphors but they're not. To give you an example right off the bat, in this fic, America has wings. Not a metaphor. He physically has wings.

(Otherwise it's canon lol)

Oh, and this fic draws a lot on lyrics of the songs 'O America' by Celtic Woman, 'America the Beautiful' and several Green Day songs from _American Idiot_ and _21__st__ Century Breakdown_. All the chapter titles, for example, are Green Day lyrics. This is not a song-fic, however – the lyrics are scattered within the narrative itself as part of it. If you know the songs, you will probably be able to pick them out.

I would recommend looking up 'O America' on YouTube or something. It's beautiful and sung as though _to_ a personification of America. I remain surprised that no-one has ever done an Alfred AMV/slideshow thing to it...

O America

I – I Am A Nation

You throw your arm over your eyes just before he enters you; it might offend him and that's not your intention, really, it's just that it's something that you want to do, something that feels comfortable at the moment – and he already took away your glasses and put them safely in his top pocket so what is there to see?

He's never really gotten any gentler, it's just that his reasons have changed from time to time, greed and lust and pride and envy, each of them have been one of those old biblical sins – but he has always been constant in your life, always there whether you wanted him to be or not.

He has hurt you just as often as he has helped you, subliminally mind-fucked you as he has physically-fucked you, hard and desperate and passionate and gentle, and yet you have no reason to doubt that he loves you.

That he loves you the most.

He answers when you call him where others have ignored you when there was no more to be gained; ah, he has exploited you as the others have, certainly, but he loves you, he loves you and makes love to you on your lands, _to_ your lands, your purple mountain majesties grand and from your prairies to the sea beneath your ageless open spacious skies—

And he calls you beautiful. It might be nothing but his pride talking again or it might be that he's lying, he's lied to you before, but you always want to believe him so you always do, not because you need his praise or his promise but because you love him back.

Do you love him only because he loves you?

"Oh, America, America..." He whispers it low beside your ear. "God shed His grace on thee."

(No, you _do_ need that praise, don't you? He will ever answer thee as long as you call him – and you will call as long as he answers. You have thrived this long on making a name for yourself, pushing yourself forward because you cannot bear to be ignored. _Tell me I'm beautiful. Tell me you love me. I know I'm not perfect but as long as you tell me I am then it doesn't matter. God mend thine ev'ry flaw, isn't that what you said before?_)

Dream, America, dream

[or]

Scream, America, scream—

Your dreams are emptier now, rinsed of Frontier and Manifest Destiny and American Exceptionalism, real-unrealistic dreams, instead filled with the static noise of television dreams of tomorrow; your screams have more worth and he listens, particularly when they are on his behalf. You take up a hard handful of earth in your fist as you twist wildly beneath him, throwing back your arm and bucking, arching, as he rocks you to that oblivion once more and you scream and you can't be sure if it was words or not.

He smiles at you. The years have changed you both but you especially, that day in September was not like that day in December sixty years before, nothing has been the same since then, even your scream, you have doubted yourself so much ever since (and maybe for good reason), but even though he has hurt you before, he took your hand then and he takes it again now, the dry soil of your land tumbling between your own fingers and his.

You swing your arm back over your eyes, suddenly too shy or too ashamed to look at him with the sun in your sky behind him like that; you think he is beautiful too but you can't say it, you love him but you can't say it, your voice sticks in your throat and you bite at your bottom lip, you are just as proud and awful as him and you feel him inside you, so full of him that you can feel nothing else – but that's always the case, even when he's nowhere near you, his kisses linger and his touches tattoo themselves on your skin and his language is yours, your thoughts, in your head and on your lips.

You hear him laugh, all pretty and musical like church bells, it's not his real laugh, he's half-mocking you; you squeeze your eyes tighter shut beneath your elbow as you feel him lean down, inhale the scent of grass and then him as he presses close, kind of wrap your legs around him as he kisses you.

You are not weaker than him. Nowhere near. He has told you this himself.

He just likes to make you keep your jacket on when he makes love to you so that he doesn't have to remember that you can fly away and be gone if only the mood takes you.

"Oh, America," he says again (and you think he's trying to make you cry), "you are beautiful to me."


	2. II: Born On the Fourth of July

II – Born On the Fourth of July

Years before it turned to desire, America was a tiny child who fit perfectly within England's arms, clinging to him and cuddling him delightedly. He was all white frills and gold hair and azure eyes and England had loved him more than anything, cradling him to sleep against his chest.

His hands had trailed time and time again over the tiny wings folded at the child's shoulder blades.

Never before had he ever treated anything as so precious, with so much care, as if his own life depended upon the welfare of the strange little boy – the eaglet – he had one day claimed as his own.

As if he had known what he would become.

—

"Hold still now..." England huffed irritably, wrapping his arms around America in a different manner to keep him from wriggling loose. "America, pray contain yourself for a moment! Kindly allow me to dry you, you silly boy."

"I _am_ dry!" America protested, his voice a little muffled from the towel over his head as England rubbed roughly at his hair.

"You most certainly are not," England replied shortly, briskly running the towel over the back of America's neck to soak up the water that had dripped onto it from his hair. "Good Heavens, why it is always such a chore to first get you _into_ the bath so that you will wash and then get you _out_ of the bath and acceptably dry? If you hate one state of affairs as much as the other then how are you ever content, hmm?"

America muttered something to himself – which England did not pursue – and squirmed impatiently.

"Am I acceptably dry yet?" he asked, ducking under one of England's strong arms only to be barred by the other. "Englaaaand—!"

"Just your wings to go," England informed him, wrestling him still again. "Come now, stretch them out for me."

America rustled the appendages at his shoulders for a moment before spreading them out to their full length. They grew very fast – at present they seemed slightly smaller than usual because they were wet and the feathers were dark and stuck together, but when they were dry and he ran about with them outstretched, the wind caught them and arched them into huge feathery bows at his back.

Eagle wings – all shades of mahogany and chocolate and caramel. He was an oddity. England had never seen wings on a nation before.

"I thought I might fly today, England," America chirped conversationally as England carefully dried his wings. "The wind was very good. I saw some birds and I tried to copy them but..." He trailed off, his tone suddenly undertaking a trace of disappointment, of frustration. "...I-I could not lift from the ground no matter how hard I flapped my wings or how fast I ran."

England faltered. America suddenly sounded as though he was about to cry. He wrapped his arms about him and cuddled him from behind comfortingly.

"Poor boy," he murmured. "Perhaps one day."

America sniffed, but he looked over his shoulder at England, his blue eyes hopeful.

"Do you think so?"

England smiled at him.

"Well, perhaps," he said again.

He lifted the towel and began to dry the other wing; and, as he did, his fingertips brushed over a few feathers with straight, blunt edges, tucked unnoticeably beneath the layers.

Ones vital for flight carefully cut short when America was asleep.

_If I ever decide to let you._

—

"My soldiers!" America protested suddenly as England tucked him in.

England blinked at him.

"What of your soldiers, dear boy?" he inquired mildly. He supposed that the child meant the elaborate set of hand-made toy soldiers in the red coats of the British Army that England himself had made for him some years ago – America had been playing with them after supper, only leaving them at the promise of a story before bed if he came quickly.

"Leave them as they are, please," America said, snuggling down beneath the bedsheets. He moved his wings restlessly for a moment or two before settling them. "I wish to play with them tomorrow when I rise."

England rubbed at his hair in a gesture of fondness.

"Very well, I shall leave them as you have done."

"Thankyou." America closed his eyes with a smile. "Goodnight, England."

"Goodnight, America. May all your dreams be pleasant ones, my boy. God shed his grace on thee."

He closed the door quietly behind him, not wanting to disturb America – already half-asleep – and went back downstairs. He found the soldiers standing to attention outside the pantry door, lined up in absolutely perfect regimental formation; an entire miniature army of Redcoats, arranged with the preciseness of a child. America in particular was very meticulous about certain things – it was almost strange that he ran riot most of the time and yet sat in near-silence for hours on end, measuring the exact space between each of his soldiers as he lined them up.

It was almost uncanny.

England supposed that America was merely copying the formations that he had often seen England's army in, doing it as best he could from memory – as it happened, his officers weren't in the correct place and neither was his sergeant-major. Still, the strange seriousness about the arrangement of the toys was nonetheless slightly unnerving. England wasn't quite sure whether to be proud of the child or be worried that he paid so much attention to the formations of the armed forces.

America was much, much too young to be thinking about war – and besides, he had England to look after him, to protect him. He would never _need_ to fight for himself if England could help it.

He was almost tempted to take apart the formation to ease his nerves; but no, he'd promised America that he would leave them as they were, and so he would.

As he returned to the kitchen, leaving the soldiers standing straight and still in the dark, guarding the pantry, he hoped that that would always be the case.

That things would be left as they were.

* * *

I look up at you.

You say nothing else. In the muted silence of our fray even the rain seems distant and I suffer that I can still feel your words echo over the empty lands we have torn apart. In the end, it seems it made no difference whatsoever. You are determined to leave me.

America, oh, America, how could you do this to me?

(I had always hoped you would never inherit my cruelty.)

You pause a moment longer, and then you reach to your breast and begin to unbutton your coat. It looks like mine but it is not red. Blue. You chose blue. I never knew you liked that colour.

You shrug out of your coat and allow it to fall into the mud at your feet. From beneath it you spread out your wings – out to their full length, and I confess that I did not realise that they had grown so large.

Well, do not stand there above me with your wings spread as though you fancy yourself as some kind of angel of redemption; you naïve, silly, foolish little boy. No wonder I cannot shoot you – you would have no idea what to do with the bullet.

"You used to clip them, did you not?"

You speak again. Your tone is not particularly angry; but you are accusing me nonetheless. I meet your gaze. My tears have stopped but I do not rise. If you think that you are now bigger than me, that is fine. I shall allow you believe that for now. I am truly too exhausted to do anything else.

"Yes," I reply. "Yes, of course I did. How else was I to prevent you from flying away on your own before you were ready?"

You give a cold little laugh.

"Ah, England," you murmur, "you were _never_ going to let me fly away on my own. You shared with me your language and yet words mean nothing to you. I cannot speak, cannot argue, cannot be understood if I only use words. You have forced me to use war instead."

I remember your soldiers. I remember how the night before you begged me not to touch them, to leave them as they were; and that on that morrow, you were so excited in your hunger for breakfast that you knocked them all over.

Perhaps I should have known then. You have no care for the destruction of what has been carefully built, lovingly cultivated – even those things which you yourself have achieved. But what was I to do then? They were merely toys.

I look aside. I cannot help the bitter, half-amused smile which paints itself across my face. I have a strange sense of humour, do I not? Even in my position, even knowing that I am upon the very brink of losing you – this merely the suspended moments before the fall – I cannot take this entirely seriously.

My fledgling, my eaglet, my America, shall we not see how far you can climb before you plummet out of the sky and break your neck and end up shattered on the ground in a thousand pieces?

"Yes," I agree softly. "I suppose that is probably the one thing you learned from me. I had always hoped that it was not to be so."

You smile and it honestly looks rather genuine.

"You are a good teacher," you say. "Goodbye, Great Britain. God save."

You flap your wings – once, twice, powerful strokes to gather momentum. I feel the air pressure, half-shield my face from the mud that you kick up, but although I want to suddenly scream at you not to leave, want to grab at you and stop you, I admit that I am also somewhat fascinated.

I have never seen you fly.

Your wings lift you in a sudden flurry of feathers and movement and then you're gone, soaring upwards into the grey sky with easy, graceful motions. I watch you shrink and disappear against the canvas clouds as a few under-feathers shaken loose from your wings in your haste to leave, to show me what you could do, float around me, spiralling gently into the mud next to your coat and both of our guns.

You are gone.

"God bless," I reply gently as I look up at the empty sky still.

Oh, America, do not break your neck too soon.

* * *

I was surprised that he came here – that, in all honesty, he had the _nerve_ to come here.

I did not rebel against him in order to hurt him. What I took out upon him back then was not hatred but resentment, frustration, anger. I did not hate him.

When he dropped his musket in the mud and fell on his knees before me and wept, I knew that I could never hate him. I do not think that I have it within me to hate, for even anything that _he_ did not make me despise him, only recognise that he was trying to hold onto me with everything that he had and therefore try to escape him even more.

He cut my wings night after night and I did not hate him for that.

However, he _thought_ that I hated him, and I know him to be bitter. I have no doubt that by the time he wiped his eyes dry and retrieved his gun, he most likely hated _me_. I thought it was unlikely that he would ever come near me again.

Still, to call him to arms is to call him by name. As before, _I_ declared war on _him_. I broke away from him because he insisted upon imposing whom I might and might not trade with – what on Earth made him think that I would turn a blind eye when he chooses to do the same thing when I am no longer his to control? I am perfectly aware that he and France have been at war with each other for a while now, and _still_ I maintain that I will trade with France if I desire to and, furthermore, that the great British Empire really has no say in the matter.

That, and that my brother is my brother and I shall annex him if I want. Well, I suppose that that might be considered to be more of a minor quibble – _my_ brother, _his_ colony...

England, of course, did not take kindly to me standing up to him and left me no choice but to declare war on him again. It seems to me that that is the only language he understands, anyway.

I still do not hate him, but I hate his arrogance. How _dare_ he come here? How dare he appear annoyed by the disgusted look I am giving him? What else can he expect when he chases me down within my own sanctuary and throws my torn flag at my feet?

"America," he says calmly, stepping over the threshold of the office, "I have won this battle. What say we call it my victory and discuss this like gentlemen?"

"Discuss _what_, exactly?" I spit back at him.

I have no weapon. I ran out of bullets and the flint jammed and eventually I rid myself of the musket that had become a burden to me. I came in here to recover, for security, for sanctuary – as in a church – whilst I gathered myself.

Nothing is sacred to him. He simply followed me in here. Dragging my flag behind him to throw at me as though it were a mere rag.

"Why, the conditions of your surrender, of course," he replies with an air of exaggerated patience. "Surely it is clear to you that I have you outmatched. It would be better for you to accept your loss with grace."

He steps ever closer towards me as he speaks; I back against the desk, feeling blindly behind me upon its surface in the hopes that my hand might come into contact with something that I might use to take his eye out. I find nothing and have only my bare hands to act as a shield between myself and him as he closes in upon me.

He raises his hand towards my face: although I consider that he is about to hit me, I do not flinch, staring him down with as much courage as I can muster. He does not, however, strike me; instead he touches my glasses, gently at first, and then in a decidedly firmer manner as he pulls them off my face.

"I need those!" I burst out, trying to snatch them back; he is too quick for me, snapping them out of my reach. Once they are over a foot away from me I can barely see them anymore; everything has at once become blurred and indistinct, even him in his proximity.

"I disagree," he says thoughtfully, examine what _must_ be my glasses from quite a distance.

I frown at him. What in the world can he possibly mean, he _disagrees_? Of course I need them – why would I wear them otherwise? They are hardly fashionable; in fact, more often than not they are nothing but a nuisance to me. They dirty and break easily and in the rain they are quite useless.

I often wonder if perhaps he cursed me – my eyesight only worsened after I left him. Now I cannot read or see anything in clear detail if it is between a foot and two from me. It is quiet inconvenient and I wish that _I_ could disagree too but the fact is that I _do_ need them and I do not see what difference it makes if he likes them or not.

(He blinked at me, clearly taken aback, when he first appeared in my lands to answer my beckoning of war and saw me looking at him through them.)

"Please." I reach blindly for them. "England, I _need_ them."

I know it is probably more psychological than anything, but I feel vulnerable without them; I feel that he has robbed me of more than a weapon by taking them from me. I have become reliant on them.

"Short-sighted, are you?" he suddenly asks, glancing at me sharply.

I nod, opening my hands for them.

"Yes," I huff, trying not to sound too angry with him while he still holds them hostage. "Give them to me, if you please."

"_That_," he says with conviction, "is something that I will agree with you on."

He opens his hand and I hear the _clatter_ of what can only be my glasses hitting the floor of the White House. He smiles at me – that awful, sickly smirk of his that I have seen him turn upon others but never myself.

"England—!" I begin, infuriated—

There is a _crunch_. I freeze; his smile widens. I follow the source of the sound to the floor. I already know what made that noise – what has become of my glasses – but I still squint enough to bring the sight of his heavy uniform boot crushing them into as clear a focus as I can manage. The frame twists and the glass cracks and splinters and when he lifts his foot they are irreparable.

I look up at him, shocked. I cannot _believe_ that he would be so spiteful. My fists clench of their own accord and my body coils and I throw myself at him before I can think the action through; I am impaired by either my eagerness or my eyesight but he sidesteps me with very little effort, grabs hold of me by the front of my uniform coat and uses the fact that I have thrown myself out of balance against me. The room is a whirl of blurred paintings and white walls and suddenly I am being slammed face-first into the desk that was a moment ago at my back.

I gather my breath, somewhat-winded, and make to push myself up; but then I feel him press himself up against me from behind. I pause again, sucking in a breath, wondering what he is planning as his hands spread over my shoulders and upwards.

He pauses, then takes hold of the collar of my blue uniform coat and tugs it downwards and off me, twisting my arms painfully behind me as he does so. I hear him throw it aside without further thought and suspect that his attention is no longer on it but rather on my wings, which were tucked beneath it. I keep them tightly folded, not wanting him to inspect them.

As usual, he pays little heed to what I might want and takes hold of the right one by the bone, pulling on it to manipulate the joint into opening; he hurts me quite a bit by doing it, although I bite at my bottom lip to keep from making a noise. With my right wing spread, he holds it open and I hear him go to his belt – and there is the telltale sound of a sword being drawn across its scabbard.

"Are you going to cut the feathers again?" I ask breathlessly, half-mocking. "To prevent me from flying away once more?"

He laughs, but it is entirely humourless.

"Nothing of the sort, boy," he replies.

And I feel the blade at the root of my wing.

My breath hitches. Is he... is he really going to...?

"This is what I should have done to begin with," he says lightly.

I feel the sword sing against my feathers. He runs it back and forth with the gentleness of a skilled violinist, never quite touching me. I am too terrified to move even an inch, for I know how skilled he is with a sword, how well he cares for his blade. It is so sharp that if I so much as try to pull my wing back I might end up losing it.

"To think," he goes on, his voice deceptively gentle, "that you would have the boldness to declare war on _me_. I rather thought I had raised you better than that."

I can feel my nerve beginning to fail me. I have defeated him before but he was weaker then; weaker and stunned that I had dared to stand up to him. Thirty or so years have bred bitterness in him and now he is honestly terrifying. I do not know if I am strong enough to defeat him again, as he is now – and if victory cannot be mine, then would it not be better to go down as a hero should?

"If you are going to take them," I say, willing my voice not to shake, "then do it. Likewise, if it is my life you will take instead, so be it. I am not afraid of you, England."

"That," he sighs, "would be British Empire to _you_; and I am not impressed by your words of grandeur. Did you rehearse them before your mirror, boy?" He laughs coldly and does not give me a chance to respond (although I cringe because he knows me too well). "Either way, I shall not take your life. It would teach you nothing." The sword brushes my feathers again. "And as for your wings... they would make nice trophies, it is true. However, again, the lesson would not be quite right..."

I think to open my mouth to ask in sarcasm if he intends to whip my behind as if I were a child instead; but then his free hand reaches beneath me and I feel his fingers deftly unlacing the cords fastening my breeches. I stiffen in horror, my breath coming faster and shallower, and even my heart-rate begins to accelerate. What does he intend to do to me?

"Poor boy," I hear him hum, almost like a lullaby. "If France was kind enough to keep his filthy hands off you during your little Revolution, then I daresay that this is most likely the first time that anyone has ever touched you here."

He brushes his hand firmly over my most private area as he mutters "here"; I shudder, unnerved by the sensation, at the feeling of someone else's hand. Does he intend to make me uncomfortable? I do not understand his way of thinking – most particularly since he has never touched me like this before. When I was a child, he never said or did anything that might be regarded as inappropriate to me. Why now?

Because this _is_ inappropriate. And granted, yes, France never touched me either. Nor did Prussia. Nobody has – I am isolationist. I have no interest in the world.

I struggle to control my breathing as I feel him hook his hand into my breeches and sharply tug them down so that they are about my knees. I dare not move too much in protest, for the sword is still pressed against my right wing. I do not like to admit that what I said earlier was merely talk but the truth is that I do not wish for him to relieve me of my wings if I can help it.

My underwear joins my breeches and I still, wondering of his intention. Perhaps he really does intend to beat me. He never did _that_ when I was a child either, but then I suppose I did not declare war on him back then as I do now.

I feel his hand on my behind and bite at my bottom lip as I bow my head, looking firmly down at the desk. Give me your beating then, British Empire. Give me your best or your worst, however you would like to word it. I can take whatever you give me and I shall rise up taller than you. I am not afraid of you.

He does not strike me. Instead, faster than anything I could have done to stop him had I known his intention, he has slipped his finger inside me.

I am uncertain how to entirely describe the sound I make, but a moment later it becomes a hiss of pain; I could not help but jump at the sensation of his invading me and his sword finally sliced into my wing. It was unintentional on his part but that changes nothing as I feel it begin to bleed, clotting the feathers together. I cannot fathom which hurts more, the sharp sting of the wound or the blunt intrusion of his finger within me.

He merely tuts, sounding impatient, and adjusts his grip on his blade.

"You are going to have to hold still," he reprimands me; and I dare not move again. Out of the corner of my eye I see the blur of blood splashing onto the surface of the desk. I am lucky enough that it did not hit the bone.

I do not like either the feeling or the idea of him touching me so deeply inside at all; I won my freedom from him and thus I and my lands are no longer his to explore or exploit. It is a highly unpleasant sensation, painful and obtrusive and unnatural. He is, however, going about it in an odd manner. It feels as though he is looking for something—

The feeling intensifies as he forces another finger within me. It most certainly hurts now and it is all I can do not to buckle beneath him. I draw a shaky breath as I feel him twist them; they squirm like something alive and the sensation makes my skin crawl. There seems to be no stopping his exploration and I begin to wonder exactly how far and how deep inside me he can go – surely only as far as his fingers can reach—

He touches something and I truly do crumple beneath him with a gasp. I hear him laugh, clearly pleased with himself, as he angles his hand to find the spot once more. I do not desire for him to touch it again—

He does, and this time he does not draw back from it, rubbing at it, tickling it until I am almost sliding off the desk. I have no idea what he is doing to me but I cannot help but fancy that he is somehow touching the absolute core of my being, reaching beyond what is physical about me and grasping some part of my soul or my consciousness or _something._

_Stop, stop, please stop_—I cannot find the words, cannot catch my breath or wrestle a proper hold over my voice. The feeling of it is indescribable; I do not like it and want him to stop but I cannot help the sensation that is knotting itself in my belly as he mercilessly torments that spot deep inside me, making my knees sink together as the pressure mounts. I want it to ease more than I want him to remove his fingers.

A moment later, however, he does exactly that. I exhale deeply, relieved – until I feel him suddenly thrust _himself_ inside me with no warning whatsoever. He slams against me and the movement makes the sword cut into me again; I cry out on both counts and he grasps hold of my hair.

"What did I tell you about holding still?" he growls low beside my ear. He twists my hair in his hand tightly, building up a rough rhythm as he does so.

"England...!" I cannot act any longer. "You're—h-_hurting_ me—!"

He gives a laugh that makes me flinch. My wing is bleeding very badly and all I can do is quiver underneath him as he violates me, afraid of losing my right wing altogether beneath his unkind blade and his unkinder behaviour.

_This_ hurts far worse than his fingers. Why does he have to do this to me? I have never been invaded before – why did it have to be him, like _this_? Why could it not have been an alliance? I admit to having thought, wistful in my meandering, that perhaps if he came to see me as an equal, someone worthy of standing side-by-side with, I might have chosen him as my first – since I owe him so much, since I know him so well.

But it would not have been like this.

He is as manipulative as he is cruel. Even if it is only an act, I am certain that he has it in him to be a kinder lover than this. Even if I was the one to declare war on you, can you not at least take me to your bed and lie about loving me?

(If ever our positions are reversed, that is what I will do for you.)

He releases himself within me, riding it out with a further few sharp thrusts against me; I clench my fists on the desk at the feeling of it. It is disgusting, my insides awash with it, his seed within me as is my blood.

After a moment of listening to him catching his breath, I feel him step back and suddenly I am unoccupied again. The sword swings away from me and I hear him slide it back into his belt as he puts his clothing back in order. I try to fold my injured wing as I hear him step away from me and can only give a little sound of pain as I make the attempt, letting it fall limply back against the desk I am still bent over, sagging considerably.

"You are not impenetrable." England finally speaks up, his voice icy. "Do not think even for a moment that you are, you snot-nosed little brat."

I finally slide completely off the desk and collapse onto my knees as I hear him walk away, his stride calm and even. I hardly put up much of a fight towards him, it is true, but I cannot even begin to formulate a response. How did it come to this? Once I was a child – _his_ child, more or less – tucked up safe and warm in bed, half-asleep as I listened to his stories of how he had tortured and tormented those weaker than him – Spain, France, Austria, Holland, Italy. Even listening to the lilt of his voice as he recounted his cruelty with too fond a look in his eye, I had never felt afraid of him, because he had always leaned in afterwards to stroke my hair or kiss my forehead goodnight when he was done.

I had never been on the receiving end of his wickedness, nor had I ever considered myself in danger of being so.

So how did it come to this?

(Hours later I came to realise that his cruelty and spite knew no bounds and that I – if I had _ever_ been special to him – was definitely not so anymore. I wrapped a bandage around my cleaned wing as I sat on a hillside and watched the White House burn to the ground. There was nothing I could do.)

* * *

In the War of 1812, the British captured the original White House and burned it down. You know, I am not really sure who even won that war in the end...

**Prussia **– The American army in the War of Independence were trained by some Prussian dude whose name I don't remember...


	3. III: Every Breath That I Am Worth

III – Every Breath That I Am Worth

(Your blood was a river running west and the gold rushed beneath first your own touch and then ours.)

You were not surprised to see me.

"Well," you said, half-smiling as you opened your door to me, "I knew it was only a matter of time."

"You need to learn a little something about keeping certain things to yourself if you do not wish to be bothered by us," I replied coolly, stepping inside. "I expect I am not the first to have made the journey to relieve you of it."

Your smile turned somewhat sickly.

"Of course not," you agreed. "I rather think Spain for one has had _me_ in his mouth more times of late than he has had tomatoes."

"I should appreciate it if you did not discuss your sexual liaisons with me," I said icily. "This is a business trip, you understand."

"Oh, so were his." You sauntered away down the hall, those ridiculous wings of yours half-open. "And France's."

Insolent little brat, you might have at least taken my coat. I hung both it and my hat up myself and went after you, already rather displeased by your manner. It is most certainly true that you and I are hardly on good terms of late but I most certainly did not raise you to be such an ungracious host. I have not seen you since I burned your little White House to the ground and subsequently chased you away from your brother (whom I rather think you should leave well alone, if you please), but I still should not have to suffer this kind of disrespect, least of all from _you_.

You had gone to your bedroom. I was glad to see that you were not going to make this difficult for me. I was here for business too. You had gold and I wanted it. It is a pity that Spain and France both got here before me but, given their reputations, I am not really all that surprised that I was beaten to performing fellatio upon you by the pair of them.

Nor am I surprised that you would make this so unpleasant, but I suppose it cannot be helped if you were one day masturbating instead of doing something productive and suddenly found yourself with liquid precious metal all over your hand. What else can I expect from a boy with eagle wings arching out of his back like some absurd mockery of an angel?

I entered your bedroom and was immediately struck by the walls. You had maps everywhere, large ones and small ones, all of your lands; and you had lines all over them, some scribbled over and redrawn. I could see that they stretched, collectively, from one side of you to the other, westward, ever going west.

"What is this?" I could not help but inquire the purpose of this bizarre project of yours.

Already lying on the bed, looking terribly uninterested, you glanced at me.

"Oh," you explained, "I am going to build a railroad."

That was the end of the conversation. You did not seem especially interested in elaborating, at least not to me, and I have to admit that I was not especially interested in your foolish idea. I have often wondered what goes through that empty head of yours but I do not care for you to elucidate on my time.

I came to you with a sense of purpose and you were obliging enough to unfasten your trousers for me. You were not, however, aroused, and so I took back my notion of you not making this difficult for me.

"That is hardly my fault," you muttered. "I know you only want one thing. You are the same as Spain, the same as France. How can I help it if everyone only ever wants me for what I can give them?"

"I do not appreciate you attempting to make me pity you, you little upstart," I snapped.

I descended on you then to take what was mine. You were young, inexperienced; it did not take me long to get you into a state of capable of giving me what I wanted. You writhed about and moaned from time to time and I believe I might have heard you say my name as your gold rushed. I drank of you and you filled my belly with gold; so that I was so full of your riches that I might burst beneath the burden of what I had taken from you.

Perhaps that was what you were hoping for – that our greed would destroy us for the sin of turning it upon you.

Of course I was not the only one. Not the first, not the last. You knew we were all insatiable. Me especially.

You knew we would take it from you. Maybe you knew, too, that it would only be a matter of us simply raping you hard enough to get it from you.

(Oh, America, you knew. You knew the day you were exploring yourself and it rushed from you. I wonder what you were thinking about then. What were you dreaming about, America?)

I had had enough of you, weighed down by your wealth, when you invited me to take a little more.

"I know how greedy you are," you hummed nonchalantly.

"Then I have no idea as to why you should wish to indulge my greed any farther."

"France and Spain will take it if you do not."

Perhaps I heard something of a plea in there. Perhaps they were rougher with you than I was. Perhaps my rape was somehow kinder.

(Perhaps you loved me. Did you say _their_ names, America?)

I felt that somehow you were manipulating me; but although you had angered me with your words about it not being your fault if you were desired only for what you could give, I admit that I also felt something that might have been pity... because you are correct. You are not a virgin, I myself saw to that, and yet no-one has ever made love to you, America. You have only ever been raped, torn apart for what you have and what you have done. France, once your ally, and I, once your bitter enemy... How cruel we have been. How unkind.

You cannot blame us – Europe – for what we have done to you. That is simply how we are. We have done it to each other, please understand. I have raped France and Spain and they have raped me. We have taken up arms against one another – all of us, Germany, Hungary, Austria, Holland, Prussia, even that idiotic Italy. We _are_ cruel.

I do not think that anyone has ever made love to me, either.

I did not take you for myself that time. I did not take anything of you. Whether you truly enjoyed it or not I do not suppose I will ever know for you did not once smile, but when you rushed again against my stomach, there was less gold – less gold and more white, less land-laden riches and more life.

You sighed and I knew that this time – this time at least – it was not for the gold.

(Unless it was for the gold of your hair.)

* * *

It's been years and, for all those years, America and England have not exactly been on friendly terms. It's rather been more like a certain aloofness, civility enough to shake hands and exchange meaningless pleasantries whenever they are forced to come into contact, but the damage caused by those two other wars and that business with the gold between them seems irreparable.

They are both engaged in other wars at the moment, anyway; too preoccupied with their own conflicts to pay each other much mind at whatever these meaningless meetings are, pre-League of Nations, pre-UN. It's 1861 and England is an empire with time enough for everyone and yet time for no-one – China and Japan hate him, Russia resents him and France is jealous of him.

He doesn't care one little bit. He smokes some fancy, expensive cigarette at his end of the table, heedless of Germany's irritated coughing; immaculate, of course, in all his finery, Spanish gold and Chinese silk and Indian jewels.

"Who would have thought it?" France whispers sullenly to Spain – and it's true that England is at his most desirable. He's never been so beautiful – and yet, somehow, he's also never been so ugly.

That, in any case, is America's opinion, who thought he was much nicer in a simple shirt with a simple smile, playing with him beneath the shade of the oak trees—

At least, it's America's _usual_ opinion. Today he comes in late, white in the face, one arm clutching around his middle, and doesn't say a word.

America's war has civility enough to keep itself solely within him – he suffers in anything but silence and yet no-one touches him, no-one goes anywhere near him. Sometimes Canada opens his mouth, but frowns and closes it again, and France puts aside his animosity with England and wonders aloud to him what is to be done about it. So far England has not lifted a finger but to tap off the cumulating ash of his cigarette.

He watches America very carefully today, however; watches how the sweat builds on his pale face so that his glasses slip constantly and he has to push them up with a hand that has blood flecked on the fingertips, watches how he rocks back and forwards and shifts in his chair as though thoroughly distracted, watches how he cradles his forehead in his palm and tries his hardest not to shake or scream.

A break comes; Germany retreats with Austria and Hungary into a corner, England saves his smoke to blow into France's face as he approaches and America stumbles out of the room by himself, a blotchy bloody butterfly on the back of his shirt.

"Ah," France sighs, waving away England's smoke, "I am most inclined to think that you are greatly enjoying watching him in so much pain."

England gives a shrug – but it is somewhat uncomfortable.

"He is his own nation now, and is that not what he wanted?" His green eyes darken. "Lord knows _you_ gave him help enough to realise that dream. What of it if he suffers now? Did he truly think it would be so easy?"

"So bitter still, Angleterre," France sighs. "So stubborn and so prideful. I cannot, _cannot_ believe that you hate him as much as all that."

"And what help would you have me give him, pray tell?" England snaps, angrily stubbing out his cigarette. "Any intervention on either of our parts will result only in a declaration of war upon us – you know that as well as I."

"This is true – certainly he has mimicked your warlike tendencies perfectly."

"Well then," England replies shortly, resting his chin on his hand. "I am sure I shall hear no more about it from you."

France smiles.

—

"I might have known you would try to resolve it with so foolish a remedy."

America's head snaps up. He looks awful – England doesn't recall ever seeing him appear so haggard, so sick and wasted-away, as he does now. There are dark circles under his eyes and his skin is deathly white and he's lost weight.

His wings are patchy and tattered and with several vital feathers missing.

England folds his arms, resting his weight against the doorframe. He had told himself that he wasn't going to face America and immediately be struck down with pity for him, had reminded himself that this was only for business, that America needed to be told that he had to pull himself together, for god's sake—

But he remembers when America was little and loving and a perfect fit in his arms and so it's hard, _even_ for the hard-hearted British Empire, to look at him now with a needle and thread clutched between his sweaty fingers, halfway through trying to stitch himself back together, and regard him as though he never meant anything to him.

America drops his gaze again, dabbing at the blood with his bunched shirt.

"What else am I supposed to do?" he asks in a low, angry voice. "I am splitting in half, England. Surely you can _see_ that."

"Of course I can."

"Then surely you also see my predicament." America gives a cold little laugh. "I know you think me idiotic but even I would not be eager to be so drastic as to take a needle to my own flesh if I had not the need to do so." His sudden sigh sounds exhausted. "Can we not at least agree on that?"

"I daresay we might."

"Then leave me be. I am sure you agree also that this does not concern you."

It certainly does not. England has to agree there too, watching America go back to his sewing. He was never any good at it, seldom paying attention to England's lessons, and the pain of having to pass the point through his own skin to seal the rupture clean through his middle – as though someone took a sword or an axe to his midsection – makes his shaking fingers slip all the more. The stitches are loose and uneven and not doing their job.

England huffs, pushes off the doorframe and approaches him. He tells himself that it's because he can't stand to watch America so utterly fail at repairing himself as he holds out his hand for the needle.

"Give it to me," he says firmly.

America glares at him balefully.

"I would rather you did not intervene," he says stiffly. His glasses slip again as he says it. "Haven't you some Asian nation to rob or something? China is looking strangely untraumatised lately."

"I would rather you did not continue your campaign of being so utterly ridiculous," England replies coldly, taking the needle anyway and completely ignoring the second part of that statement. "I am not surprised that this has happened to you, nor that it remains unresolved."

"That is hardly—"

"Any of my business?" England nods shortly, putting his free hand on the small of America's back to steady him as he puts the needle through neatly. "Perhaps not, but consider this not an intervention – that is, I would appreciate it if you did not rally around your flag in that silly self-righteous way of yours and declare war on me. Consider this instead a lesson."

"A sewing lesson?" America smiles sourly through the pain and his wings flutter wretchedly. "As I thought – you have nothing left to teach me."

England pulls the thread taut, ignoring America's gasp.

"That may be," he hums patiently; and inwardly he doubts that _his_ stitches will make much difference either way.

—

America throws up everything he swallows and cannot read anything for more than five minutes before he clutches at his head and throws the literature aside – his body rejects nourishment and his mind rejects wisdom.

England watches him sleep and wonders if America is going to die.

Civil wars and inward revolutions are not exceptional; something like a sickness of nations, not contagious but still common. England himself suffered for ten years between 1641 and 1651 beneath the inner conflict of a civil war, but the bouts of it were sporadic and somehow less violent, less devastating, than America's illness seems to be.

They are still barely on speaking terms but England eventually insisted upon accompanying America home; he has heard from Canada (lovely loyal Canada) that sometimes America screams the place down at night, or, conversely, that he doesn't sleep at all, flitting between the huge empty rooms of his house by lamplight, short-sighted and wide-eyed and shaking all over with his wings dragging and a trail of blood behind him.

England doesn't know how long his stitches will hold; maybe mere days, maybe mere hours. He reads Milton by gaslight as America sleeps fitfully next to him – green gaze flickering to him every now and then, noting the sweat beading on his white face despite the cloth soaked in cold water on his forehead.

He doesn't know if America is going to survive this – if, at this rate, he will even live the night.

Barely an hour later, America begins to thrash around in his sleep, tossing and turning and drawing up his legs, knees pulling at the covers as he shifts restlessly; he groans and his eyes squeeze tighter shut as though he's suddenly in more pain than before and then he's turning half onto his side and England can see the blood blossoming through the white sheets.

The _thud_ to his left tell him that his book didn't make it to the bedside table as he turns to America, taking him by the shoulders and forcing him onto his back again. America doesn't awaken but tries to resist, to protest, shaking his head violently from side to side.

"America!" England shakes him. "America, for goodness' sake...!"

"No, no, _nonono_, stop, _stop_..." As though reacting to him, America suddenly kicks and claws, wings thrashing, seeming to go into some kind of fit, and the blood comes through the cotton faster. "Stop, no, stop, please stop, stop—I'm begging you, stop stop _stop_—!"

He goes silent from a moment, abruptly cutting himself off; and then he screams at the top of his lungs and bolts upright, blindly slamming England away from him. His eyes are open – he's awake, and he pants for a moment, his chest heaving and his wings drawing close around him, before suddenly pitching forward and throwing up into his lap.

It's almost all blood. He coughs up the last of it as England collects himself and shifts to sit next him, putting his hand gently on the back of America's neck as the younger nation buries his face in his hands and starts to cry.

"Oh, America," England whispers, "you're weeping." He rests his head on America's back, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades.

Right between his wings.

He says nothing else and lets him sob himself into silence.

"What do I do?" America eventually asks, his voice still shaking. He lowers his hands from his face and they go instead to his middle, feeling for the thread, his whole body sagging in a sigh of relief as his fingertips tell him that the stitches are still in place.

It is not a request for help. England almost smiles at that. So stubborn and so prideful. It's just a question – about that lesson.

"Be strong," England replies, closing his eyes, "or be destroyed."

America pauses.

"You... know this sickness, do you not? England?"

England nods.

"I know it," he agrees. "I have tasted it before."

* * *

"So, what do you think?"

America, the suit that had been so pristine only this morning in disarray after presumably a day of rushing about greeting people and showing them around, flops down next to England on a bench under the shade of a tree.

"What do I think about what?" England asks, looking at him.

He isn't altogether all that pleased to see him – it's much too hot to deal with him. He and America are notably on better terms now; his boss, the one with the hat, and his queen, Her Majesty-Empress, were reasonably friendly with one another and ever since the end of America's sickness, which he eventually recovered from, they have become... not close, exactly, but closer. Much, much closer.

There was the gold, too, which helped – at least on England's part, although he knows that his greed really shouldn't have been a cement for the cracks in their relationship.

Still, nothing to be surprised about. England – the British Empire – is currently the wealthiest and most powerful nation in the world, with almost a third of the globe under his thumb.

America, of course, doesn't address with him with the respect that he should, but perhaps there's nothing to be surprised about there either.

Perhaps he's just glad that high-and-mighty Great Britain wasn't quite stuck-up enough to refuse a personal invitation to America's current proud achievement – the 1893 Columbian World Exposition, or the "Chicago World's Fair", as it is often called in conversation.

"About _this_!" America enthuses. He waves his hand around at everything – the grand structures showcasing electricity and Ferris Wheels and steam locomotives. "Beats your little Great Exhibition thing, right?"

England blinks at him very slowly, becoming more and more irritated.

"If you have just come over here to insult me," he says coolly, "you can kindly take yourself off."

"Not to insult you!" America insists. "To _inform_ you!"

England frowns. America honestly seems a bit drunk, to be frank. Not that he's worried – and it's not as though he doesn't like a drink or two himself – but America _does_ seem to be drinking a lot lately. England doesn't think he's seen him completely sober for a while. It's barely mid-afternoon, too.

"Where have you been?" he asks carefully.

"Oh, everywhere!" America says breezily. "A lot of people showed up today. And since I went to the trouble of making sure the fair is a _world's_ fair, everyone wants to see how I represented them. I took Egypt over to the Street in Cairo and Denmark insisted that I show him the big Viking ship Norway brought and—oh! Germany wanted to know why I named this simply brilliant invention of mine after one of his cities! Can you believe that? You would think he would simply be honoured and not question it!"

"And what is this "invention" of yours?" England queries flatly, privately agreeing with Germany.

"My best idea yet!" America grins. "I call it a hamburger – after Hamburg. It is, I suppose, a sandwich—"

"_We _invented those," England interrupts. "Europe, I mean."

"Not like _this_. It is ground beef in a flat circle shape, grilled, and you eat it between two halves of a special kind of bread and you can have lettuce and tomatoes and whatever else you want on it! You should try it!"

England rolls his eyes.

"That sounds appalling," he says, "so I am afraid I am going to pass."

America just laughs.

"You are depriving yourself, then," he says. "I've had five today!"

Suddenly England stops being so concerned that America is going to die of alcohol poisoning.

—

Regardless, later that night in America's room, England watches him from the bed as the younger nation makes himself decent enough to go scampering out of the bedroom, his wings half-fluttering; when he returns, he's carrying a bottle of bourbon and two glasses.

"Nightcap?" he beams, holding up the bottle.

England shakes his head. He doesn't feel much like it tonight – and besides, he doesn't drink in bed.

"No, that's... that's quite alright, thankyou," he replies.

(Actually, he's a little put out that America can walk as well as he can right now.)

America shrugs, puts the glasses down on the dresser and pours himself a generous portion of the drink before bringing it back to the bed with him. England opens his mouth for two reasons; the first to scold America heartily for bringing a potentially-spillable beverage near the bedsheets and the second to ask him how much he drinks in a day—

"England," America says, cutting him off, "do you... do you think my fair is... well, good?"

England blinks at him, thrown off. He was bragging about it earlier, and now...?

"You had better not be fishing for compliments, boy," he says in a low voice.

America swallows his mouthful of bourbon.

"No, no, not at all!" he says earnestly. "I am being completely serious! Your Great Exhibition... well, I enjoyed it very much and I wanted to make mine as good so that... well, people might compare me to you..."

"I seem to recall you saying that yours was, ah, of a slightly superior nature to my "little Great Exhibition"," England reminds him haughtily, just to give him a hard time.

America winces a little.

"W-well, I meant... yours was around forty years ago, so... I have more things to show off. The electricity, I mean! General Electric lit the whole fair. Don't... don't you think that that is something pretty amazing, England? Yours didn't have that."

"Well, no, that is very true," England replies graciously (because it's all that he _can_ be in this instance).

He meets America's gaze. The boy – well, young man, really – is looking at him with those big blue eyes of his. He took off his glasses earlier when England decided to push his host's hospitality to see how far it stretched.

(Quite far, apparently.)

_I understand_. And suddenly he does. _You want very much for me to say that I am proud of you; that I am proud of how far you have come. Even though you broke away from me, you still want me to acknowledge you, to accept you as you are._

America _has_ come a very long way. Certainly England is somewhat concerned about what appears to be a bit of a drink problem surfacing in him, but the Chicago World's Fair has shown him – and the world – what America is capable of. He is beginning to industrialise almost as fast as England and some of his inventions really are rather ingenious (the electricity, not the hamburger). England even noticed quiet little Japan taking some rather diligent notes here and there on his travels around the fair.

America has always been ambitious and free-thinking, eager to prove what he can do; but England has also observed him to sometimes be a little shy, despite what his brash, precocious outward behaviour would imply. He doesn't really have many friends because he doesn't venture out into the world very much, preferring to keep to himself. Aside from England, the only other people he appears to know very well at all are his brother Canada, France and Japan. His sexual experiences with Spain and France were limited to Spain and France wanting his gold. No wonder he was so keen to make the World's Fair his own – it has brought the world to _him_. America has never seen the streets of Cairo or a Gokstad ship or even the Welsh choir singers England sent.

It's nice, England realises. It's nice to see him branch out. He can't stay isolated forever. He's growing up.

(After showing him some of his other inventions, America took England's hand and pointed up to the darkening sky.

"I am going to fly," he insisted.

"You can already fly, idiot," England said, tapping America's back and feeling his wings through his coat.

"No," America replied. "That is not what I mean. _I_ can fly, yes – but I am going to create something that will enable us to one day own the skies." He looked at England and smiled. "_All_ of us.")

He looks at America carefully nursing his bourbon. Tonight is the first night he and America have slept together in quite a few years now and it always takes England a while to reacquaint himself with America's body – or perhaps _acquaint_ is a better word, since America seems to have changed every time England sees him.

He had, of course, almost forgotten about that tattoo.

France did it, probably some night America was drunk. It's an encrowned woman, slender and elegant, in a flowing gown and holding aloft a flaming torch, etched delicately into the skin just over America's heart. France actually isn't a bad artist (she's quite beautiful, really) but the ink he used was terrible – it turned green after about a year.

England was introduced to "Lady Liberty" when she was still healing and wasn't green. He hadn't liked her merely because France had put her there. He had said he could have done her better as he had carefully kissed around her contours and America had laughed (because he'd been drunk that night too) and agreed.

"I could have done her better." England meets America's gaze. He meant to say he was proud of him but he looked at Little Miss Liberty and that came out instead.

America tilts his head to the side, squinting a little bit as he looks at England because he can't really see him properly without his glasses, and smiles placidly.

"No, you couldn't have," he says gently. He puts his near-empty glass down on the bedside table and leans in closer to him. "Please do not think I am insulting your artistic ability. I have no doubt that you could have marked me with something beautiful, something intricate and flawlessly-designed. But it wouldn't have been her."

_It wouldn't have been a symbol of your freedom._

England gives a sigh; it's uncharacteristic, but he backs down. Let him have his hour of greatness, then. The world has readied itself for him and allowed him to clasp it whole within his hands, to bring it to his own soil so that he might come to know it. England no longer resents America as he once did and he has always loved him (even when he didn't) and is willing to let him be beautiful, to be proud of him, without trying to take the credit for it.

Let the world meet him as the United States of America – not Great Britain's failed, rebellious protégé.

As what he is and not what he once was.

England leans in and kisses her; she is healed and permanent, a promise—

Not _from_ France but _to_ the world.

He doesn't say anything and neither does America; but England feels him shift his wings as he settles to sleep, nestling close.

A new century is almost upon them and America is readying himself for the world.

* * *

Take it literally: America really came gold and really was ripping in half. I warned you. XD

The gold thing was, of course, the California Gold Rush.

As for the American Civil War – the relationship between the USA and Britain was interesting at that time. Americans were always in Britain and Brits were always in America, literature and plays passed back and forth between the two countries and relations were a little strained but overall fairly amicable. Queen Victoria and Abraham Lincoln sometimes wrote to each other and were, by and large, fairly friendly. However, when the Civil War broke out, both Union and Confederacy threatened both Britain and France with declarations of war should they intervene on either side even though both made moves to help.

**1893 Chicago World's Fair: **The first one hosted by the United States. This is where the first hamburger in the form it is recognised in now appeared. It was also the first place Welsh choir singers performed outside of mainland Britain.

America's drinking will come to a head. The USA started develop a pretty bad drink problem throughout the late nineteenth century and early twentieth. Funny how England gets the blame for being the resident drunk in _Hetalia_...


	4. IV: Here On Earth

IV – Here On Earth

The rain is coming down hard but you're not surprised. This is, after all, November, and, after all, London. You see the car pull up outside through the window and avert your gaze instead to the mirror hanging over the fireplace. The flames are roaring and the room is warm and quiet and tidy and comfortable, books lined neatly on the shelves and the mahogany desk immaculate.

Not even a month before, in rain just like this, you and he were shovelling mud in the trenches.

Your bosses have been in discussion and _his_, well, he doesn't seem to want to know _what_ he wants for America. It was him, after all, who proposed the idea of League of Nations but it doesn't look like America himself is actually going to be involved in it, at least not anymore, and of course there was that whole strange abstaining-from-involvement only to come crashing in heavy-handedly at the last minute – not that you didn't appreciate it, what with Russia throwing up his hands and deciding that he had more important things to contend with (although you _thought_ you saw the telltale signs of that sickness in _him_ a few times – you just didn't offer to go get your sewing kit).

When America first turned up in Flanders, you almost laughed at him in his brand new out-of-the-packet uniform. It sort of looked like yours but it wasn't green, more a sort of tawny, tan, almost like sand. He was proud of it, put his hands on his hips and asked "Ain't this uniform so flattering?"; you merely arched an eyebrow because it looked good on him but it was impractical. It dirtied easily and he wasn't in the trench five minutes before he had mud all over him and looked like he'd been there longer than you.

That made your eye twitch a little in annoyance.

But he was eager. He smiled and grasped you by the shoulders and said "I'm here, England! Look, I mobilised! I came to help!".

You let him load guns and line up shells. He was inexperienced in this kind of warfare. You think he might have suffered a mild case of shell-shock because after the third night (and a particularly devastating attack by Germany) he started sleeping in your bed with you and clung like a child when you tried to push him out because there wasn't really enough room in the narrow cot for you both.

He slipped his hand into yours after you had lined up your fatalities. It reminded you of the Black Death, the pitiful cries of "Bring out your dead!" while the church bells groaned, and you couldn't help but think that war was just another sickness – _even_ war like this, the so-called "righteous" kind.

You glanced at him and suddenly wished he hadn't come. You'd have thought him selfish if he hadn't but at least he'd have been safe.

(Not that it stopped you from wanting to bind his wings with barbed wire from No Man's Land to stop him flying away and leaving you all alone again.)

You have time enough to check your appearance in the mirror – uniform clean, neat and perfectly pressed, your hat at just the right angle, your new(est) medal pinned carefully to your chest exactly where His Majesty put it – before the office door opens and there he is.

His uniform, too, is clean and well-ironed and he's wearing his hat – although it's different to yours, yours is a proper officer's hat and his is a little garrison cap perched slightly askew atop his blonde head – and he has a few medals of his own scattered here and there across his broad chest. He has one from His Majesty too. He grins at you and salutes; American-style, palm facing down.

You smile blithely and salute in return; British-style, palm facing out.

"England!" he says brightly. "How are you?"

"Well enough, considering what we've just dragged ourselves through." You gesture towards the interior of the room with the same hand that saluted. "If you'd like to come in?"

He nods, drops his arm and saunters into the room. He's starting to get something of a swagger in his step and you think dimly that it might be worth cracking him on the back of the head with something to try and beat it out of him before it develops into something irreparable.

There will be time aplenty for that, however. For now, you implore that he takes a seat at the desk, and, after you pour him a splash of brandy, you push both it and the freshly-written Treaty of Versailles towards him.

"France has already looked at it," you say. "This may shock you, but he and I are both in agreement for once."

"I'm shocked," he replies mildly, perhaps to humour you a little; he's pushed down his glasses to read the document over the top of them. "Germany isn't going to like this one little bit, you know."

"That's rather the point," you say coldly. "It's designed to make him think twice about starting another war."

"I thought that was what the League of Nations was for."

"Well, yes – not that all of us seem to be terribly for investing ourselves in it, hm?"

His blue eyes meet your green ones; he shrugs but looks a little uncomfortable.

"It's theoretical—" he begins lamely.

"Oh, don't give me that rot!" you snap, slamming your hand down on the desk and making him jump.

(This is unfair. You were already irritable with the whole situation. You were looking for an excuse to pick on him.)

"It _is_ theoretical!" he protests vehemently, puffing out his cheeks in that silly childish way of his. "If everyone is united then there would be no reason for war – we would talk through our issues and resolve them without fighting."

"Alright." You are still impatient but you push yourself up onto the desk with one hand, sitting directly in his field of vision, very close to him, to ensure that he gives you his full attention. "Alright, that much I will give you. But in that case, why are you choosing not to join? Good god, it's rather like throwing a party and then not showing up yourself because it's not your sort of thing. Do you not see the flaw in that, America?"

He shifts awkwardly again.

"Yes," he replies. "You can call me a hypocrite if you want. But as I said, it's a theory. It does not take into account personal differences or characteristics... My boss has proposed the formulation of the League of Nations in order to prevent another European war; however, it has been decided that I do not entirely fit the profile of a League member and so—"

"You will not be joining," you finish for him. You sigh and try to keep a reign upon your patience.

He is very good at making you angry, even now.

"Well, thankyou very much for your concern," you say icily. "How pleased I am to know that the great United States of America is disquieted so much about European affairs that he takes it upon himself to police us." You slide off the desk again, wanting to be away from him, and your tone changes – you cannot even accommodate sarcasm any longer. "How _dare_ you impose your "solution" upon us!"

"And what's this?" he bursts out, snatching up the Treaty of Versailles and shaking it at you. "Do you really think breaking Germany's back is going to solve anything? What you and France are imposing on him is _worse_ than the League of Nations proposal! He won't thank you for this, England!"

"Ha," you reply haughtily, your grin twisted and sardonic, "as if I'd have that Kraut thank me for anything. We've reduced him to nothing and I see no better way of going about telling him so. He should be glad if I saw fit to let him lick the mud off my boots after the mess he's made of Europe."

America looks at you in disgust.

"You're so damned arrogant," he says frostily, throwing the document back on the table and standing. "I'm not having anything to do with this. If you want to handle it like this, fine, have it your way, but I'm not getting involved."

"Ah," you reply, "I might have known your helpful interventionist attitude wouldn't last. Well, I suppose that's fair. Europe's problems are Europe's problems, nothing to do with you – not that that mind-set fits entirely with your precious little League of Nations idea—"

"Don't throw the help I gave you back in my face!" he interrupts, sounding rather hurt. "I know I owe you for that Zimmerman Telegram thing but if it wasn't for me you'd _still_ be waist-deep in mud in Flanders!"

"Oh, how very _kind_ of you to not be self-absorbed for five minutes." You fold your arms as you turn to him again. "I suppose I really shouldn't be frightfully surprised that you'd go running back to your isolationism the first chance you got, however." You observe the annoyed flush on his face and feel that he has no right to have it. "I might be arrogant but at least I'm not selfish."

"Selfish?" He seems stunned. "I'm _here_, aren't I? If I was truly as self-absorbed as all that, I wouldn't have come at all!"

"You came at the last moment because it benefitted you to do so," you say in a low voice. "I asked you for help several times before that and you refused."

He glowers.

"That's because I'm not at your beck and call," he replies stiffly.

You meet his gaze for a moment, think of a dozen cruel things to say but don't voice any of them, and at length give only a terse nod. The war is over, you are both in full dress uniform with medals jangling and flashing in the firelight and you will both be gentlemen about this – there is no longer an excuse to be soaked through and covered in mud, your shirt half torn off, while trying to bayonet someone's eyes out.

Funny, though. The war was awful, the worst you've seen; the conditions were horrendous, the death tolls unbelievable, the trenches Hell-on-Earth, and yet...

You and he haven't gotten on so well in years. At night when you huddled together under the thin, worn army regulation blanket, you felt that little bit safer for the sound of his heart beneath _her_ and hoped that he felt the same about yours. You kissed his brow goodnight and he complained that the bedbugs were already biting him as he cuddled close.

And somehow now, in a perfectly civil environment, you just want to punch him in the face and it seems like the feeling is mutual.

"Fine." You snap it, going to the desk and retrieving the Treaty of Versailles. "That's perfectly reasonable. Do not concern yourself over this. Thankyou for coming – I apologise for having wasted your time."

He doesn't move. You ignore him for a long moment, neatly arranging the document in pristine order and opening the desk drawer to put it back. You take off your hat at long last, no longer seeing the need to be so proper about it all if he's going to be so difficult, so unyielding, and smack it onto the desk's surface next to his untouched brandy (you are exceedingly surprised that he didn't knock it back – he drank like a fish in the trenches).

"Well?" you bite out at long last, glancing up at him. "What's the matter with you, boy? We're done here. You may take your leave."

He blinks at you – whether it's because of the sudden formalness of your voice or the words themselves or simply because you called him "boy" you aren't quite sure. He opens his mouth briefly but then shuts it again, apparently not knowing how to answer.

"For God's sake, America!" you shout, losing your temper. "Get out of my sight, won't you? Spread those awful wings of yours and go soaring away into your spacious skies. Leave us to our problems and we shall leave you to your seclusion."

You sink into the chair yourself and link your hands and press your forehead against them. You fought in those trenches for almost three years without him – you don't need him preaching at you about your arrogance. Perhaps he has a point but after four fucking years you feel like you deserve to be allowed to gloat and rub Germany's face in the fact that he got the hell beaten out of him – at least just a little.

After all, it's not like _you_ didn't get the hell beaten out of you too.

"England?" America (who _still_ hasn't left) pauses for a moment, and then presses on with a sudden rush of breath: "Things aren't... they're not great between us sometimes, I know, but... I'm willing to forgive if you are."

"Get out," you groan. You don't look at him. You can't.

He obliges this time. Maybe he swaggers again, you don't know because you don't look, but the office door closes and he's gone.

The entire time you were in those trenches with him, holding him close when he shook and letting him hold you when you were cold, you never once said you were sorry and neither did he. You thought – foolishly, naïvely – at the time that it didn't matter, that he was ready for the world, that you could still take his hand and lead him out into the sun with you when it was all over—

But he's not prepared for it. He's still not ready to be on the world stage like you and you know now that you are probably to blame.

(You don't stay angry at him. He tucks himself away in his nest again and you go back to being glad that he is safe.)

* * *

"America," I say, hoping that I do not come across as too much of a hypocrite, "I think you might have a bit of a drinking problem."

"Yes," he agrees. He looks at his (fourth) scotch critically and is intoxicated enough to be honest. "Yes, I think so too."

"Well, then perhaps you should take it in a little more moderation."

He looks at up me with that obstinate, determined look of his.

"Actually," he counters, "I'm going to stop altogether."

—

Honestly, I have to admit that I was not entirely inclined to believe him at the time, but America did actually stop drinking. Completely. For about a decade.

In the long run I do not believe it did him much good – unless we are talking about the welfare of his innards – because he started having a lot of trouble with gangsters and crime rings not long after he went absolutely teetotal, but I suppose I have to give him points for effort. In truth I believe that he only started drinking again – in a far more modest manner, thanks heavens – because of the terrible time he has had of late. Wall Street crashed and hit him the hardest and he has been sick again recently – another of his strange illnesses, his lungs seemingly full of dust so that he coughs and coughs without respite.

He distracts himself with more pursuits of grandeur like his World's Fair – he built a huge dam to tame one of his largest rivers and sculpted a vast monument to four of his presidents and he likes to make what he calls "movies". I have to admit that even I enjoyed his newest offering, a full-length colour animated feature based upon one of Germany's fairytales, _Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs._

A pity, then, that Germany and I are not exactly on good terms at this moment in time.

"Do you really think he's going to start another war?" America asks in a low voice.

"I am unsure as to what he is planning at the moment," I admit. "However, to say that he hasn't exactly been very happy with France and I for a while now would be something of an understatement."

America opens his mouth and I head him off sharply:

"And don't you dare even _think_ of saying anything along the lines of you having told me so."

He grins at me and lifts his glass to his mouth to take a drink of the bourbon I got especially for his visit; and at this, before he can even wet his lips, another of those obscene coughing fits takes him, wracking his whole body as he barely just slams the glass down again and doubles over.

It is painful to be in the presence of because there is nothing I can do except watch him cough himself half to death.

I fetch him a glass of water but he coughs so much that he cannot take it from me; by the time his frightful bout has eased he has in his hand a palmful of damp dust, clotted with saliva and the fluid of his aching lungs. It is not smoking and it is not alcohol which has done this to him, but rather the agricultural damage done to his lands. I have looked at him in this manner before and wondered if he is strong enough to recover – and he has – but I cannot help but feel that he is very unwell, far more so than he pretends to be. His face is almost always of a ghastly pallor, he seems to have lost weight and his coughing keeps him up half the night so as to make him seem permanently exhausted.

He smiles through it all, because that is what he is wont to do, but his strength swings in roundabouts and he has always been rather sickly. I expect to outlive him. We will all outlive him, we Europeans, and we will go on waging war against one another long after he has become the dust that he coughs. He was not made for this world. He is not a war machine like us. I believe that I see that now.

I hand him the water and his thanks is so breathless that I barely hear it. It will do nothing, I know, but wash the taste out of his mouth. It cannot cleanse his lungs and rinse away the dust that cripples him. It must be utter torment, it must irritate and itch when he breathes and then scream and bleed when he tries to cough it up. His coughing drives _me_ mad, too – because I cannot stand to listen to him suffer and because I could do without him being sick when I can dedicate no time to helping him recover. I have other things to contend with at the moment – things like Germany, whom I feel is greatly restraining himself from telling France and I to go fuck ourselves every time we speak with him. It doesn't help that Russia seems to be becoming increasingly friendly with him and that Poland ignores every warning France and myself give him about Germany possibly doing a little bit of border-hopping in the near future.

If it comes to war – and I have a feeling that it might – I do not intend to haul neither America nor Canada in with me again, since America in particular, as I have already noted, is really in no shape to hold his own against anyone at the moment, least of all a rearmed and pissed-off Germany; but I hope he understands that things might get beyond what France and I can control. War is different these days – changing, mutating, spreading to engulf anyone who happens to be in the path of its destructive swell. They are larger, bloodier, more barbaric than I have ever seen before, and war is certainly no novelty to me by now.

America was impressed by my technology during the Great Exhibition and eager to show off his own at the Chicago World's Fair. True to his word to me, a mere decade later he had created an aeroplane, something with which we were able to own the skies. He thought he was being generous – he, who can fly on his own, wanted to share that gift with the rest of the world. And certainly, yes, we have accepted his tentative offering. My own Royal Air Force will act against Germany if his Luftwaffe acts against me.

But technology. Our horrifyingly-fast advancements since the beginning of the century. Cars, bombs, gas, grenades, machine guns, missiles, planes, submarines, tanks, torpedoes, zeppelins. Machines of war for war machines.

America, let the dust have you. Do not become like us.

* * *

"No offence, because your boss seems like he knows what he's doing and all, but..." America hesitated, looking sidelong at England.

"I know what you're going to say," England sighed, not looking up from the document. "Everyone says it."

"So, um..." America twisted his garrison cap absently in his hands, looking around the office for a moment. "...Can _I_?"

"If you must."

"He's _crazy_."

"Warmongering, I think, is a better description."

"Well, yeah, that too."

"And half-American."

"Don't pull that card again," America muttered.

He huffed a bored sigh and fidgeted with his hat some more. He didn't know why he'd had to get all dressed up for _this_ – it wasn't like he was going to war or anything. He was just looking over and signing some agreement to sell stuff to England.

England – who, as usual, was at war.

America and his new boss had been disappointed by the complete and utter failure of the League of Nations; it hadn't _really_ been England's fault, he hadn't been looking for another scrap so soon after the so-called Great War, but the Treaty of Versailles had – to put it mildly – rubbed Germany up the wrong way (_not_ that America was going to say that he'd told England so, absolutely not) and he and _his_ new boss had decided sometime back in the 1930s that they didn't want to play by the rules anymore. He'd been forcibly separated from Austria and so had clubbed together with Japan and that idiot Italy instead and the three of them were currently running riot in Europe and France (surprise surprise) had surrendered and now England was being bombed left, right and centre and had the tenacity but not the money to keep acting like a persistent cock-block to Germany—

At least, while America resolved to remain neutral.

Which he wasn't so resolved about anymore. Sure, he was still all for non-interventionism, but the fact was that he was still more inclined to side with England than Germany if push came to shove and England...

...couldn't hold Germany at gun-point without a gun. Or a tank. Or an aircraft carrier.

"This all looks good to me," England said, looking up. "Both of our bosses have already signed it, so... if it's alright with you, we can go ahead and make this official."

"Oh. Yeah." America lay quite a bit of effort into putting on an air of nonchalance. "Yeah, that's fine with me. Whatever you want."

England rolled his eyes, seeing through him, and picked up a pen, putting his own signature to the Lend-Lease agreement with a confident flourish. He looked up and held out the pen.

"Here, then," he said calmly, pointing to the empty line with a single slender finger. "If you'd be so kind."

America got up and approached the desk. He couldn't help suddenly feeling a little shy about it. He was honestly torn between crowing over England for needing his help and being flattered that he had asked – that he had come to him first out of any other potential ally.

(He'd dressed up in his full uniform because he'd wanted to make a good impression – to show that he was taking this all seriously. He'd even tucked his wings away under his jacket even though he'd wanted to keep them out because he was sincerely impressed by the Royal Air Force. They'd fought off the Luftwaffe during the Battle of Britain some months ago with unwavering determination. Great Britain was still safe. Germany couldn't touch him.)

He didn't let England know that he was shy, though. He grinned obnoxiously at him, practically snatched the pen and signed his full name – United States of America – firmly but carefully. Usually he scrawled but he could write nicely when he wanted to; he formed every letter perfectly, remembering how England had taught him to write years and years ago.

Sometimes he thought he deliberately butchered the letters when he wrote just to be spiteful and childish.

"And with that I'm a belligerent," he said, straightening. "Well, sort of." He stretched as though easing his tired muscles after having just done something of great merit.

Well—

"Do I get a thankyou kiss?" he asked, leaning towards England knowingly and laughing when he was pushed away.

"Sod off," England said; but he ruffled America's fair hair fondly.

"That's all you can say?" America pouted. "After I just—"

"Yes, yes, let's not get all full of ourselves over it," England sighed. "Just allow me to be sincere for a moment."

America blinked down at him, surprised, as England dipped his arms beneath his and wrapped him in a grateful embrace.

"Thankyou," he said. He was hiding his face. Blushing, probably. Such odd little behavioural tics he had – calmly blowing someone's brains out one moment and flushing pink with embarrassment over such a small, sentimental gesture the next.

America smiled and put a hand to his spine, patting him comfortingly.

"You're welcome," he replied quietly. "I'm your ally, England. I've got your back."

("In all seriousness," England said in a low voice, nipping at the shell of America's ear even as his hands worked blindly at the younger man's belt, intent on getting him out of his unneeded uniform, "it _is_ nice to have you recovered from your Thirties Flu. If you must know, I never appreciated you coughing up dust into my mouth."

America smiled and put his own hat firmly on England's head at a skewed angle.

"Nothing says "Get Well Soon" better than your favourite ally begging you to sell him weapons, heavy-duty vehicles and barbed wire by the boatload," he replied.)

* * *

"Here."

England, his uniform jacket and officer's belt slung over a chair and in only his shirt and tie, sleeves rolled up, handed America a shallow glass of whiskey with one hand. He was holding one for himself in his other hand and there was an unlit cigarette between his teeth. He seemed a lot more comfortable about giving America alcohol these days – although it was certainly true that America didn't drink nearly as much as he used to.

Even if he really _felt_ like drowning himself in it some days.

"Thanks." America took it and knocked back a grateful mouthful before setting the glass down on the large desk in front of him with a hard _clack_.

His leather flight jacket was thrown over the same chair as England's garments, although he still wore his tan wool blazer as he pored over the map with a pen. It was an enlarged map of Europe and they had been giving extra special attention to the area between Great Britain and France. The English Channel (affectionately nicknamed by England as a "bloody lifesaver – honestly, France has no clue how to manoeuvre a boat and I'd prefer if it stayed that way") was heavily annotated with arrows and thick colour-coded lines to symbolise battalions, fleets and points of entry and England's tiny neat notes here, there and everywhere.

1944. This had been going on for much too long.

"I trust it is to your liking," England said, putting his own almost-empty glass down on top of Italy.

"Hm?" America glanced briefly at him, then gestured vaguely to the map. "Oh, yeah, it's... it looks okay, I mean, I know we've discussed it about a thousand times, but—"

"I meant the whiskey," England interrupted casually, searching his pockets for his lighter. "Scottish." He paused as he located the lighter – a gold Zippo – and lit up his cigarette. "I meant the whiskey there too, not the map." He snapped the lighter closed and pocketed it again, taking the cigarette between his first two fingers and letting it dangle from his limp hand as he exhaled, seeming to thoroughly enjoy it, and approached the desk to look at the map himself. "The map is fine. The plan is fine. I don't know what you think you're doing with that pen, lad, but Canada is going to be going in from where you have it poised. Let your baby brother have his glory, eh? There's more than enough to go around."

"Of France?" America smirked, amused. "You can say that again." He reached over and took the cigarette from England's hand, taking an appreciative drag of it himself. "Ah, that's the stuff. I ran out days ago. I seem to get less and less of them each month."

"Me too," England countered with a wry smile, taking his cigarette back rather firmly. "Bloody rationing."

A moment later, however, he untucked the near-empty packet from his belt and offered it to America.

"Still," he said, "I'll let you have one as long as you promise not to fuck up on June 6th."

"That's not fair," America sighed, taking a cigarette anyway. "How can you expect me not to fuck up? You've all been killing each other for centuries. I'm still pretty new at this, remember?"

"Yes, I remember." England extracted his Zippo again and America leant towards him so that he could light him up. "You've taken to it like a fish to bleeding water, mind."

"Well, I'll try not to fuck up, then." America grinned. "I gave you that lighter."

England shrugged – whiskey-drugged, mellowed, so that he did not get flustered or defensive about it.

"It's a good lighter," he said simply.

"That's because it's American."

"Piss off." But England smirked. "Let's not forget that the cigarette giving you so much pleasure right now is British."

America laughed and reached for his glass again. England watched him do it through a haze of smoke.

"The whiskey," he pressed. "How is it?"

America looked down at the liquid amber flashing at the bottom of the crystal for a moment, swilling it this way and that, before taking another sip of it. He tilted his head, appearing to give it some thought, before he swallowed.

"'S'alright," he decided meaningfully, his eyes flickering towards England. "You know, considering it's British."

He'd been half-expecting England to actually take offense to that, to yell and sulk and call him names, but the older man actually laughed again, shaking his head. England was an oddball, that was for sure – war honestly improved his humour.

"America, I shall personally tip all of your Coca-Cola into the harbour," he said, putting his hand on his back as they both turned towards the map again.

A few more annotations here and there, a brief argument about an RAF flight path being in the way of an AAF one, a shared sentiment that France would probably turn out to be useless in this instance too. England's hand stayed on America's back the entire time, between his shoulder blades, on his spine, as though pushing him, guiding him.

It was a comfort America wasn't sure he needed anymore.

(Although later, when they had drained their glasses and stubbed out their cigarettes and discarded much more than their jackets, America spread his wings out and up so that they were almost like a 'V' – their shared symbol these days – and England sighed into him, his hand on Lady Liberty.

"Keep 'em flying," he murmured, half-joking; and America realised that England had been doing what he had always been doing.

Checking to see if his wings were still there.)

* * *

A drink. A splash in the fountain. A sprinkling of confetti and a hug and a mass street parade to celebrate victory.

America had had other things in mind.

In the empty map room – vacated, all but abandoned, due to the good news that sticky August morning – America supported England's smaller form on his thighs (the island nation almost sitting in his lap, back against a sprawling, detailed map of the Atlantic Ocean) and thrust in and out of him with a certain kind of relieved abandon and celebrated that way instead.

_we won we won we won._ He held England's officer's belt to keep him secure (the leather was a different kind to that of his bomber jacket). _we won won won won won_. He bit at England's neck beneath his unbuttoned shirt collar and loose tie and made sure to mark him as his own. _we won we fucking won_—

(He listened to England's gentle repetitive rhythm of "Oh America"—)

"I'll bet you can smell it on me." America's words weren't without a little bitterness – a little accusation. "Taste it on me."

As if to make a point, he pressed upwards and took England's open mouth in a kiss. England didn't resist him, tilting his head, one arm still around America's broad shoulders to anchor himself whilst his other hand pushed back America's blonde hair and stayed there.

"Everything I've done," America whispered, breaking the kiss but his mouth still close, still so close. "Everything I'm capable of." He paused long enough for England to kiss him once, twice, losing count; and, between them, breathe "All my destruction—all my devastation—all my ruin."

"Yes, I can taste it." England brought his other hand up to the side of America's face, his touch gentle as his fingertips went beneath the arm of America's glasses. "All of it. Your _power_."

He stopped, as if for breath, resting his forehead against America's and closing his eyes. Their rhythm remained but in the sudden silence between them the noise outside was deafening. The cheering, the singing, the celebration. In the midst of such heightened sensitivity, England fancied he could hear every pop of every champagne cork, every step of every drunken dance, every brush of cloth against skin as soldiers embraced sailors embraced survivors.

"I should be proud, shouldn't I?" America's voice was strangely hollow. His hand shifted on England's thigh, over the strap of his holster with his loaded Browning still tucked into it, as they slowed, slowed so much that they were nearly stopped despite the fact that they were both getting closer (close, still so close).

"Proud?" England echoed. "Perhaps." He stroked America's cheek. "But despite all I say, I do not take you for a total fool, America. I know you better than that. Be proud if you like, but also be prepared. I doubt you even begin to realise how powerful you have become – what this war has done to you, done _for_ you – but it will become apparent, not just to you, but to everyone. Do not be surprised if you at length become an object of hate – an enemy of those who do not understand."

"My power?" America laughed under his breath. "You can taste that? Smell it? Feel it?"

"I know it," England countered calmly. "I have tasted it before."

—

"We'll be as one."

America blinked at the words, twining his fingers together with England's as they sat close together in the back of the car.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Isn't that what they're saying?"

"Mm." England shifted his head on America's shoulder; he was falling asleep against him but he couldn't help it. "Special... Relationship, I think is what he called it..."

America put his other arm around him to make him more comfortable.

"It fits," he laughed gently. "We've spent the past four years fucking at every opportunity as though it was going to win us the war."

"It improved... improved relations, you twit," England retorted drowsily, curling into his embrace.

There was still something of a joke in his voice. Wars were different, the world was different, _America_ was different and all he could do was laugh.

* * *

**Black Death** – Bout of plague that swept all of Europe in the 1300s, killing almost half of the population.

**Zimmerman Telegraph** – In WWI, Germany decided it would try to get Mexico to side with it against the USA by offering it Texas and other places taken from it by the US once the war had been won. The telegraph sent by Germany to Mexico was called the Zimmerman Telegraph. Unfortunately for Germany, British intelligence officials intercepted the telegraph and gave it instead of President Woodrow Wilson. This was one of the reasons the USA entered the war in 1917.

**Garrison cap** – the little boat-shaped hat worn by lower-ranked soldiers in the armies of several countries. America is seen wearing one in the anime briefly, in the episode where he phones Russia to ask for 25cinch/whatever condoms.

**League of Nations – **Precursor to the present-day United Nations, this was proposed by President Woodrow Wilson to prevent another war on the scale of WWI. However, the US Congress, rather set on returning the USA to isolationism, ironically wouldn't allow America to join, nor to ratify the Treaty of Versailles.

In the segment dealing with the interwar period: Mentioned in passing here are Prohibition and the abolishment of Prohibition in the United States, the Dust Bowl (why he keeps coughing up dust), the construction of the Hoover Dam and Mount Rushmore, the Wall Street Crash/Great Depression and the release of the first full-length, colour animated movie, _Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs_, by Disney in 1937.

**Crazy, warmongering and half-American:** Sir Winston Churchill, ladies and gentlemen. All are apt descriptions. XD He is the guy who coined the term "Special Relationship", FYI.

**Officer's belt:** The leather strap that England wears on his uniform, cutting diagonally across the chest from the right shoulder. It is also often called a **Sam Browne belt** after its inventor, Sam Browne, an officer in the British army in the Victorian period.

As a random aside: The section about them doing it in the map room was the first part of this fic I wrote.


	5. V: Know Your Enemy

V – Know Your Enemy

[I've got a really bad disease—]

You were disappointed in me.

I didn't get it. I didn't understand why you were looking at me like that – tight-lipped, quiet, your arms folded in that rigid way you do when you have a stick up your ass about something. I put a lot into that speech, you know; I felt for everything I said, I _meant_ it—

But no, when I glanced at you, you just met my gaze with that... that _look_.

I have no idea what you _wanted_ me to say, England.

When I chased you up afterwards, you wouldn't _even_ look at me. I had to catch you, physically wrestle with you to get you to face me.

"Hey, jeez," I protested, "what's your problem?"

"Oh, do you really need to ask me that?" you snapped, trying to get out of my grip. "Kindly release me."

I tightened my grip.

"Not until you tell me why you're acting all snobby and cold all of a sudden," I replied. "I didn't pull that speech out of my ass, you know."

"Huh." To your credit, you managed to wrench one of your wrists free. "I beg to differ – the situation seemed contrary to me. Unrehearsed, nothing but a reel of cliché excuses—"

"_That's_ why you're mad?" I interrupted incredulously.

"Of course not!" you spat, looking at me like that again. "Good lord, America, I wouldn't have minded if you had stumbled and stuttered a thousand times if only you hadn't said—well, what you did!"

"What's wrong with what I said?" I challenged. "It's the truth—"

"It is _not_ the truth, I can't _believe_ you would defend it in that manner—"

"It _is_ the truth!" I argued frustratedly. "England, things are different now. Wars are different, peace is different – and _I'm_ the one who changed that. You know it was the quickest way to end it; I mean, for God's sake, you _agreed_ to it!"

"That's not what I'm—"

"And I figured, you know what, now that the war's finally over and everyone has calmed down again and we're trying to get this United Nations thing in full swing... It's about peace, right? Like the League of Nations but not a total failure—" I couldn't help myself – I had been thinking it for a while. "I had this crazy thought – only maybe it isn't so crazy anymore. I have created peace – maybe the reason the League of Nations failed was because—"

"Don't you _dare_ say it!" you burst out savagely, pulling violently against my grasp on you.

"—Because I wasn't a part of it," I finished wryly, humouring you, letting you go.

I had made you angry. I could tell. You always go very, very pale when you're honestly furious. It makes your eyes look really green.

"Th-that you would _dare_," you said, your voice shaking, "to have the _audacity_ to consider yourself the key to world peace when you—"

"But that's just it!" I know you hate to be interrupted but I was so excited, so earnest, that I couldn't help but cut you off in my eagerness to explain myself. "I am! Japan didn't think twice about surrendering – he lost the will to fight. And now, who else will consider attacking me? Will Germany come after me in revenge? I don't think so."

"_America_—"

"No, listen; this goes for you too, England. You are my greatest ally—no, damn it, they all know we're more than that, they all know we've been sleeping together for years, they all know I'd never let anyone fucking _touch_ you without them having to answer to me, and... and now that I've shown the world what I'm capable of, who the hell wants to answer to me? No-one!" I waved my hand at you excitedly as I saw you open your mouth once again. "No, I know what you're going to say – how could something so awful be a means for peace? Simple, really. It's a deterrent. Don't fuck with me, don't fuck with my allies, or I'll bomb you to Hell. Don't you fuck me around because I'll shoot you down. Welcome to a new kind of tension, right?"

"So what happens when someone else gets them too?" you asked in a low voice.

We both knew exactly who the _someone else_ you were referring to was, but I preferred to play that one off like I was completely oblivious.

"Even better!" I declared confidently. "If everyone has them... well, that's fair. No-one will ever think of using them, of declaring war, and that solves the problem!"

"Don't be so naïve!" you bit out. "Do you honestly think it's that simple?" You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead as though trying to bear down on a headache. "God, forgive me, America, but is this really our future?"

"Of weaponry? Of warfare?"

"No." Your hand dropped and you looked at me and there was that expression once again. "I am referring to you – you came out of that war as the dominant superpower. I had high hopes about it; I was willing to put my faith in you. You have been selfish in your dealings, it's true, but you have never been malicious. You have never behaved like Germany or Russia or... or _me_. It was apparent even early on that the war would probably result in my hegemony being taken from me – don't you remember the agreement we made to ensure that it was _you_ who inherited it? You laughed and asked if I was naming you as my heir? But..." Your fists clenched. "...You stood in that meeting today, in front of the entire newly-assembled United Nations, and more or less suggested that we should all _thank_ you for your contribution to – no, your _creation_ – of world peace, that we should be grateful for your having showcased such unspeakable destruction at the close of the war. Oh, I know it wasn't an easy decision for you to make at the time, America, but to publicly champion your actions at a time like this is more than a little tasteless and inappropriate. I had hoped you might go about the whole thing with a touch more tact."

I stared at you in disbelief. Was that really all this was about? You thinking I should have admitted to knocking Japan on his ass a little more sensitively?

"I can't believe that you..." I paused and swallowed, trying to keep my temper in check. "—_You_, of all people, can stand there and say that to me." My fists clenched – just like yours. "What gives you the _right_ to—?"

"I have every right," you interrupted icily, "because I've never been so disappointed in you." You gave a fake, false little laugh. "Hegemony and the most powerful instruments of destruction in the entire world, both in the hands of a child who does not know how to hold them."

Your words hurt me and I didn't know what to say. It's always been so difficult for me to do right by you – nothing I do ever seems to please you. I knew I was right about this and I didn't understand why you couldn't see that I was speaking complete sense. Pointing the things at everyone as a warning to play nice – wasn't that the best way of using them?

(England, you're still so old-fashioned. I was half-expecting you to turn up on D-Day wielding a cutlass.)

Your expression suddenly changed, however. You no longer looked angry; instead, you suddenly looked...

I didn't know. Kind of... _sad_.

"I will stand by you," you said quietly, "but, America, I am frightened by the future you have promised."

* * *

[You'd be surprised what I endure]

You were hunched over your desk. You've been doing that a lot recently. I know the war damaged you, which is why you made your excuses and didn't come beat up on Korea with me.

(It has to have been money and resources that stopped you – I know you, England. You like a good war.)

My wings were out. I wasn't sure if you had heard me sneak in but when you finally noticed me that's the first place your eyes fell. I'd just been training with this really cool new knife I bought so I was dressed in one of my old black sleeveless vests from that mess with (I think) Korea. I'd thought you might look at my dog-tags first – you've never approved of me wearing them all the time since the Second World War ended – but no, straight to the wings.

I've always wondered what you think of them – but I've always been too afraid to ask. It's strange, isn't it? I mean, no-one else has them, not even Canada, my own _brother_. Do you think I'm strange because I have them, England? You always look at them, you stroke them when I'm falling asleep and grab at the feathers when we're making love – but you never say anything. You've never once said a word pertaining to how you feel about them; even when I accused you of clipping them all those years ago, you said nothing. They make me a little self-conscious around you because I don't know what you think – I have no idea if you hate them or not.

I really am starting to feel more comfortable around _Russia_ these days. There is no uncertainty, no pretence, no charade. I hate him and he hates me and it's really kind of fun.

"It's snowing," I said. "Come outside and look."

"Not right now, America," you replied dismissively, going back to your paperwork. "I am very busy at the moment."

You've started behaving oddly around me recently, you know. Quiet, absent, almost like you're avoiding me. And every time I propose that you do something about the Communists, you just scoff and say I'm being paranoid. The Age of Paranoia, you call it. The American Age.

There _are_ Communists, though, England. Russia's poison is spreading fast and invisible – I have to be the hero and stand up to him like you stood up to Germany, right? Everything that he employs is meant for me to destroy so that it doesn't touch anyone, least of all you. I'm only trying to protect you, to warn you. You never know what could be waiting outside. But you won't listen to me. I'm right, I'm _right_, but you never listen.

"Well," I tried again, "I'm going outside for a smoke. You should take a break and join me."

"Put a jacket on!" you called after me as I turned away.

Ha. I knew it. I _knew_ it. You hate them. You want me to cover them like I did in the war. That's why we got on so well then, isn't it? Because my wings were under my uniform the whole time and you could pretend they weren't there. I'm not stupid. I'm not.

I didn't put on a jacket. I went outside onto the balcony and lit up and waited for you. It was cold but I didn't shiver. I'm past all that now. I'm much too strong. Let Russia have his overcoat and his scarf to keep out the cold. _I_ don't need anything of the sort.

You came. I knew you would. I noticed that your brand of cigarettes was French but I refrained from teasing you since you didn't seem like you were in a very good mood; you lit it with that gold Zippo I gave you and brushed some snow from the rail so that you could rest your elbows on it.

You looked tired. You had dark circles under your eyes and your whole body seemed to sag a bit like it was too much effort to hold yourself up properly the way you usually do. I wanted to wrap my arms around you and pull you close and make you feel safe and secure so you could rest; and, really, that's what I've been _trying_ to do for you – but I knew you'd push me away.

It's not fair. You always push me away. Sometimes when we make love you make it seem like I'm raping you because you say 'no' and 'stop' and shove at me. You shouldn't cry wolf like that, you know – maybe one day you'll _really_ want me to stop and I won't believe you.

"Are there snow-fairies, England?" I asked. I shifted my wings and one of them brushed you.

"How should I know?" you asked snappily, jerking yourself away from me as though my feathers had burned you. You seemed determined to be rude to me and I have to admit that I was a little disheartened.

You and I have never reached a comfortable behavioural balance. It always changes, the way we act around each other. I can't explain it, but it makes me unhappy. I think there needs to be another war. You're always nicer when there's a war on. We get on so much better when discussing how to march and maim and massacre over prime Scottish whiskey.

"I think it will look like this," I said after a moment. I leaned on the balcony too, mimicking your position, enjoying my cigarette and your prickly company as I looked out at the pure white world sprawled out below us.

Everything was indistinct, covered in a crisp coat of white, shapes merging and melding. It didn't look like the world anymore. I gave a sudden shiver, but it wasn't from the cold. I have some lovely thoughts sometimes – interesting, you know?

"What will?" you asked testily.

I dared to lean over and rest my head on your shoulder. I felt you stiffen but you didn't shrug me off.

"The end of the world," I whispered dreamily. "Just an oblivion like this – white, soundless, _nothing_. Not even the sound of hysteria or anything. I wonder, you know? I just wonder. I don't know if that's what I _want_ but I still think I would like to see it. Wouldn't that be interesting, England?"

You didn't say anything. For once I was glad. I nuzzled against you and closed my eyes, shutting out that perfect painless world. I hope it's like this. I hope you're here to stand silent at my side. I'll make love to you amongst the ashes.

Before that, though—

"I think I'll fuck Russia," I said. "Or let him fuck me. I don't know. What do you think?"

(I wonder if I meant it.)

"I think you're enjoying this," you said. Your voice was frosty, emotionless, but you still didn't shove my head away.

"Oh, of course," I replied nonchalantly. "I'm really hard right now, yeah? My shorts have been crawling up my ass the whole time we've been talking."

I turned my head and kissed you on the neck, just under your jaw, and you finally jostled me away, retreating further down the rail with your cigarette.

"That wouldn't surprise me," you snapped. "This is all some kind of freakish masturbation for you, isn't it? You want to know what I think, America?" You suddenly stubbed out your smoke on the rail and tossed the bent corpse over the balcony down into the snow. "I think if you and Russia are so obsessed with seeing whose dick is bigger then yes, just bloody do it already. Shag him, let him shag you, you shove your missiles up his arse and let him shove his up yours, have a damned good time doing it all because you know what? The end of the world won't look this winter wonderland of yours – it'll look like you and Russia fucking."

That was it. I knew you'd pop your cork and yell abuse at me if I pestered you enough. I couldn't help but grin at you in amusement and you went very white and looked like you were about to faint and then you finally got the balls to walk away without another word.

Make love, not war. Make war, not love. I thought you liked jokes. Why aren't you laughing? You never laugh anymore.

Ha. Wait. I know.

You'll have to forgive me, England. I'm so fascinated by being stronger than you for once in my life that I can't help tormenting you.

(Once I pushed you so far you broke down and put your hands over your ears and begged me to stop. If you were me you'd understand why I laughed at you. I like jokes too.)

* * *

[What makes you feel so self-assured?]

"What kind of coffin do you want?"

It was a serious question. You were on your elbows and knees and I had my hand on the back of your head to hold you down and I was completely inside you when I asked. I paused, leaned over you, pressing my chest against your back and feeling your heaving breath, your every shudder. You didn't seem very happy. Maybe you really _weren't_ in the mood for this like you said earlier.

Poor England. I don't think you could push me away even if you wanted to.

You didn't say anything. I sighed into your hair and wrapped my other arm underneath you, holding you under your ribs, as I pulled back and then rocked forward again – deeper, deeper than before. I couldn't stop myself from groaning. You're still a tight fit. It's sort of surprising how good you still feel, actually.

I mean that in the nicest possible way. See, I looked up then. I looked up at the room, at the walls, at the ceiling, out of the window. I had no fucking idea what time it was but it was still light outside. Ha, light. Barely. Grey and drab and dull and raining. It's always like this here – or at least it seems like it whenever I'm here. Why don't you go mad? I know I would.

That's nice, isn't it? I made wild, passionate love to you by the light of your grey cloudy sky. Be still my heart.

Here's the thing. I don't know what's happened to you but you're not like how you used to be. Not at all. You're all quiet and sullen and unresponsive. What's the matter with you? Are you dying? It feels like it, you know. You suddenly feel so frail, so small and wasted-away, like if I tightened my hold around you too much—

"America—!" you gasped, suddenly thrashing in my grip, clawing at the arm wrapped around your torso. "You're—h-_hurting_ me—!"

I felt your ribs bend dangerously there. I couldn't help but smile. I'm sorry. I couldn't. I _can't_.

In. Out. In. Out. I pressed a kiss to the centre of your spine. Your breathing was laboured. You sounded like—

Are you dying, England? Did that war...? Is the ruin it brought on you slowly killing you? You're so apathetic, so stagnant. You're falling apart. You're pale, you're fragile, you're indifferent. I have to really hurt you if I want a reaction. You don't care about anything anymore – I don't care if you don't care if I don't care if—

It's not like it was during the war. God, how I loved you then. Violence is an energy. You were filled with bloodlust. You wanted Germany's head the way I wanted Japan's. Your eyes glittered and you carried yourself straight – everything about you was wound up tight. It was your Finest Hour. When I kissed you in the meeting room against the table after the five of us were done bickering for the day, you never let me dominate you if you could help it and I loved you for it. You fought back because you were used to fighting during those years. I was no different to Germany at those times. You bit me, you scratched me, you bruised me. Sometimes I didn't overpower you; sometimes I found myself being bent roughly over the desk or being made to sit on it while you stood. You have always been strong enough to slap me around but never strong enough to hold me up, for some reason. Am I that heavy?

Either way, I don't think I could have pushed you away even if I had wanted to.

Even when I got my way with you, grappled you into some semblance of submission, you didn't let me have an easy time of it. I liked having you ride me so that I could appreciate your eyes and your smile as we did it. Your eyes were alive with something I can't describe and your smile was wicked, really it was. I was afraid of you but I was afraid because I knew how strong you were – I could _feel_ it – and I knew that I could stand up to you and that, _if_ I could do that, I had to suddenly be as frighteningly powerful as you.

England, that war made me.

Somehow, it destroyed _you_.

I don't know how. I don't. What happened to you? Why are you like this? You don't start wars anymore. For the longest time you stood up to the Axis Powers all by yourself. Why can't you even _try_ to fight me back? This isn't what I love.

Jesus, don't you know how strong I am? I don't want a quiet little doll that I can break! Why are you mocking me? If you don't want this then fight me. Break my nose. Slam your fist into my throat. Claw out my eyes. Protest me, do _something_ or you'll disappear. You drive me mad. I can't stand it, I can't stand _you_, I _loathe_ you, you have no idea—

I suddenly dug my fingers into your scalp.

"I asked you a question!" I snapped. I shoved your face into the pillow and held you there. You scrabbled at the sheets and I knew I was suffocating you.

Good. _Good_. Because you fucking suffocate _me_.

I'm sick of you. You're boring. Point a goddamn nuke at me already, okay? Give me a reason to give you my attention the way I do. Be like Russia. I hate him, you know I do, but he's not boring like you. He's not content to lie about and rot the way you are. I love you but I think you must be dead or something; all I want to do is get you a nice coffin with some ornate carvings on it and put you in it because it seems like you'll be at home there. No place like home when you've got no place to go. We'll have a lovely funeral for you, okay? Dearly Beloved, are you listening? I know you like all your languages so we can sing hymns in English and Gaelic and Welsh – I'll write you an American eulogy and give you a twenty-one gun salute and we can have your headstone engraved with some stuffy old Shakespeare or something. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Yeah, so we'll do that – get some wreaths of roses, red and white, and we'll kiss one last time and you'll hardly react the way you always do. You'll just look at me with those eyes of yours that don't glitter anymore – no malice, no ambition, no will to live whatsoever. Then I'll put the lid on and nail you in nice and snug and safe and carry you to your resting place. We can drape a Union Jack over the coffin as a shroud if you'd like. It might blow away, though. It'll probably be all grey and rainy and windy that day too.

You stopped thrashing. I let you go, listened to you gasping for breath. You're your own worst enemy. I'm not the one doing this to you. This is all you.

"I'm not fucking around," I said icily. "Your answer?"

You stilled. Then you shuddered and retched and coughed up some of that awful black stuff you always do these days. I didn't blink. I'm used to it. I mean, you're rotting, right? What do you expect, really, England? It's your own fault. Let me do a nice thing for you now and then – that's all I can offer you. They're calling this the American Century now. Me, you know? You _gave_ me your place as world superpower and now it seems like all you want to do is die. I don't mind rocking you to sleep in your grave but you have to help me out here.

You spoke then, though. You wiped your mouth on the back of your hand and your voice shook but your tone was firm.

"I apologise for testing your patience."

_Ha_. I couldn't help but grin down at you even though you couldn't see it. You sarcastic little fucker.

"Mm," I agreed softly, folding my wings around us both. "Don't test me."

_Second-guess me._

"I don't need a coffin," you said. "Some crater you leave behind will suit me just fine. Don't even worry about burying me – the ash will suffice. I expect you'll be busy with Russia anyway."

Hahaha. You're so funny, you goddamn hypocrite. Junkie preaching to the fucking choir. Acting like I _invented_ destruction or something – no, you know all about that, right? Do you think I don't have a working memory or something? I've seen everything you've done. I've been on the receiving end of some of it. Are you _listening_? Don't think that anything I've done absolves your own sins. You're _worse_. God, when I'm done with Russia it's _your_ turn. Don't forget who I am. Don't _test_ me—

"I'm going to rip you apart," I whispered in your ear.

"I expect you will," you replied. You sighed it. "Oh, but do save me until last, won't you? You'll enjoy it that much more."

"Last?" I repeated dangerously.

"Don't lie to yourself," you murmured. "You'll never be satisfied until you've asserted yourself over us all. Who _is_ on your side, really? Will you ever know? Better to be safe than sorry. Crush the world before it crushes you."

I withdrew, suddenly afraid to touch you – your corpse of a body. I knew that tone of voice. It's the one you use when you admit to having tasted some affliction of mine before.

"Oh, America," you said gently, "do you know your enemy?"

* * *

COLD WAR LOL

Not much to say about this one except that it's saturated with Green Day quotes.

As before – England rotting inside? Take it literally. Pleasant image, right?


	6. VI: The Modern World

VI – I Don't Wanna Live in the Modern World

The service is over. The casket has been taken elsewhere for a more private funeral with only the great man's family in attendance and nothing of the grandeur just witnessed, flags and marches and drums and cannons and television crews with colour cameras. The war ended twenty years ago and the people have still not forgotten how he led them in their most solemn hour and in their finest.

America sees England duck out of the church, unseen by the crowds, almost shielded by them in the way that his plain grey suit washes into the similar shades worn by a hundred others.

He follows, edging through clusters of people, statesmen and citizens and nations, avoiding Russia like the plague and being waylaid by his own boss, France and Canada briefly along the way. By the time he's clapped Canada reassuringly on the shoulder ("You're not going to go and upset him by saying something insensitive, are you?") and gotten out of the church, he thinks England might be gone—

No, there he is. Standing with his back to the church doors, looking up at the grey London sky and smoking. With the crowds still shut inside the church and the hearse itself having pulled away, the churchyard is very quiet; so much so that America expects that England can hear him approaching even though he doesn't turn to him.

"I still say he was crazy," he says.

England looks at him over his shoulder. His face is completely expressionless.

"Yes," he agrees absently. "Yes, I suppose he was. Half-American too, mind."

America grins.

"Yeah, I noticed... one of the hymns was one of mine. 'The Battle Hymn of the Republic'."

"One of his favourites. He had a lot of admiration for you. You and all of your bosses, give or take a few."

"Mm."

America doesn't say anything else; he wants to ask "And what about _you_, England?", but he is learning to hold his tongue these days. So powerful himself, he resents England's weakness, the rut he seems to have fallen into, and often can't help being cruel, abusing him verbally and mentally without really meaning to.

It's easier to be kind by simply being quiet.

"I expect you noticed that China isn't here." England breaks the silence himself; he's gone back to looking up at the overcast sky.

"Oh." America blinks. "Yeah, I did. Couldn't make it?"

_Not that I want to see him, the filthy Communist—_

"It's more that he wouldn't. He refused to attend." England shrugs. "I don't know why. Russia came. For God's sake, even _Germany_ came."

"Maybe it's because he knew I'd be here," America suggests.

England shoots him a scathing look, taking another drag on his cigarette.

"The world doesn't revolve around you, you self-centred twat," he bites out.

_Actually, it kind of does now, but sure, whatever you say._

"It was a nice service," America says, more to fill the silence than anything.

Of course, it _was_ a nice service, but America can't help but feel that something irreversible has now happened; whatever of the English Lion that was left within England has died with that man and now it seems as though there is no hope that he will ever awaken from the near-comatose state the Second World War left him in. Perhaps it is merely a facet of his still-existent naïveté – he is, after all, still very young – but America just can't understand how the world's largest empire has become... _this_. Tiny, fragile little England in his boring grey suit, his hands shaking as he smokes in a graveyard and wills himself not to cry.

America wants to be kind to him but more than that, much more, he wants to bang his head against something.

"Yes," England agrees. "They've gone to have the private funeral now, and then they'll bury him."

"You know, if you're quick and run after them," America drawls, unable to stop himself, "you can probably get there in time to fold up what remains of your faded legacy like a flag and put it in the coffin." His eyes light up and he snaps his fingers as though he's just had a brilliant idea. "Or, better yet, get him to shift over a bit and you can probably fit in there with him!"

England gives a sigh.

"I might have known your apparent sympathy was too good to be true." He turns away. "However, if it's not too much trouble, please refrain from being so disrespectful before he's even in his grave. Your boss wouldn't be happy about it."

"Wait!" America catches at him as he tries to leave; suddenly thinking that what he said might have been a bit over the line. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean... well, I didn't mean to... to insult him."

"I know." England gently disentangles himself from America's grip. "You meant to insult _me_."

* * *

"Well, of _course_ I wasn't going to be satisfied with only the skies!" America replies conversationally. "I claimed those years ago – 1903, remember? That rickety little plane? It only got off the ground for about a minute, but it still flew! The skies have been mine ever since!"

"I recall," I say tiredly, "you saying that you were going to claim the skies for _all_ of us."

"Well, I _did_," America insists. "Don't you all have airplanes now? Look at you, right, with your Royal Air Force? They saved your ass in the war – well, before _I_ showed up, anyway. Although..." He pauses thoughtfully. "You could say that since _I_ invented aviation, _I _technically saved your ass _then_ too—"

"One of Italy's greatest thought of flying machines and primitive aeroplanes before you were even conceived," I snap, just to try and outwit him into silence. I might have known it would be a lost cause. He is in far too good of a mood at present to be subdued by anything I might say, cruelty notwithstanding. "The skies might very well have been Italy's."

Indeed, all he does is stick out his tongue.

"Not _space_, though," he says. "That is no more Italy's than it is Russia's."

"Yes, yes." I sigh. He seems to thrive on being downright hateful at times. "I do not need to be reminded of your achievements – it has been all over the news, every paper that I pick up utterly saturated in it. Please, spare me, America."

He grins.

"_Jealous_," he hums.

Jealous? I do not think that that is entirely true. He has staked his claim to a piece of rock floating hundreds of thousands of miles away – upon that silver orb which lights the way of the lonely in the dark of the night, America has placed his flag, his garish stars and obnoxious stripes. "One giant leap for mankind", eh? Perhaps, perhaps, but more than that it was another game with Russia. I am glad he won – I do not think I could stand seeing him sulk for a month, for him to clench his fists in pale anger every time he looked up at the night sky.

Jealous. Hmm. That is interesting. Even just a hundred years ago, yes, I agree, I would have been jealous – although, without meaning to sound arrogant, it is unlikely that one hundred years ago he would have beaten me in anything. He needed a war to make him, a war to break _me_ so that he might take my place. Neither of us are as we were a century ago. A century ago, had I had the means of claiming it, the moon would have been mine.

And yet I am not jealous. How different a mere century can make one.

America stands and offers me his hand.

"Come," he says. "Come with me a moment, England."

I hesitate, but I recall that he _is_ in a good mood and reason that, for now, it is probably safe to trust him. I rise and put my hand in his and allow him to lead me outside into the Virginia night. I look up and see his claim – his silver dollar moon, or a quarter or a nickel or a dime.

It could have been a silver shilling moon instead, or a crown or a sixpence or a half-crown.

He reaches up, high above his head, and closes his hand; I suppose that, from the angle he is standing at, it appears to him as though he has enclosed the entire moon within his fist. I give an irritable sigh. I had, after all, asked him to spare me.

"Hey," he says suddenly, dropping his arm, "I have space, so I'll give _you_ the sky, alright?"

I open my mouth to note that I have no idea as to what he is talking about; but then his arms are around my waist from behind and I feel his body coil against my back and before I can utter even a sound of protest we are airborne, his wings driving us upwards into the sky with powerful, effortless beats.

I have never much liked flying. The sky is not my specialty – give me the sea over it any day. He, however, is as comfortable up here as he is on the ground, which I surmise is natural given that he was born with wings. Feeling his calmness, I am myself eased; his arms are strong and firm about me and, although I know that he could easily release me and let me fall and break my neck and shatter into a thousand pieces, I am assured that he will not. He has always liked to have the world within his hands and he has never once dropped it – not yet, anyway.

We ascend higher and higher and I begin to think that he does not intend to stop until we have passed the clouds and the skin of the atmosphere and broken up into the realm of his newest frontier; does he intend to show me his moon in person, to show me his Stars and Stripes on its surface so that I might touch it and be assured that it is real?

But then he pauses and darts off at a different angle and suddenly we are touching down upon something; something hard, stone, it feels like. We are extremely high up and I would think that he has taken us to the side of a mountain or something but for the acute flatness of the stone beneath my feet. He lets me go but keeps one hand at my waist as I survey our surroundings.

Ah, I see. A church. One of the oldest existing within his lands – high and spiked and turreted, a mix of Spanish and Italian and French and German and English Gothic. This is not American – it is European, one of his first scars that we bore upon him. It is like any that you might see in Germany's towns or Spain's hills or through the mist beyond my moors. It is exceedingly high – we are at the topmost part of it, upon the gargoyle-decorated platform beneath the final stone spike.

I look at him, although he does not meet my gaze. I understand, America.

Once upon a time, when we were all great, when we were strong and brutal conquerors, when I was the worst of all, _this_ was the highest we could go.

I was the world's largest empire and yet I never so much as touched the clouds.

He sits down, uncharacteristically silent, between two gargoyles, his wings curved out behind him like his eagle, looking up at the moon; he isn't smiling as I had expected him to be, but I can see the opal orb of it reflected on his glasses.

I look at his precious piece of space-rock myself and do as he did, raising my arm and spreading my hand until it obscures the silver shilling moon. I fold my fingers around it without hesitation.

Oh, America, had I had but a means of claiming it, had I only had the technology _my_ century could never have envisaged, the moon would have been mine.

* * *

Something stirred.

Something stirred in you. It wasn't the first time he had asked you – but every time before that you truly _did_ acknowledge his request with disinterest, and anyway, it wasn't as though he was asking because he really thought you would say yes. Honestly, he was almost mocking you.

This time, however, had been different.

He paused at the door on his way out. He still didn't know his enemy so he was lashing out at anyone and everyone. Korea then. Vietnam now. Russia always. That uniform wasn't so flattering on him, probably because nothing about this war was. He wasn't even _winning_ it, really – and television, radio, the whole static age had done its duty in killing off any remaining glory still clinging to the narrative, the legend, of war.

But he paused and hitched up his glasses, looking at you through them.

"There's still room in the jeep," he said casually. "You sure I can't tempt you?"

You opened your mouth, not looking up from your newspaper; but you hesitated, because something in you honestly _stirred_.

Something that hadn't so much as flickered for years now.

You didn't rise to his bait, however.

"I'm afraid I'll have to pass still," you said at length. "As always, however, thankyou for the invitation."

He grinned and shrugged and shouldered his backpack.

"Well, you know where I'll be," he said, and off he went, banging the door behind him.

"God bless," you threw after him; although you're not sure if he heard.

Were you ever the way he is – what he has become? He treats war like a work day, like the whole thing has a strange sense of normalcy about it to him. Surely... surely that's not—

No. You shut your paper and leaned your head back, closing your eyes. Of course that's alright. It's _better_ that way. It's better for him to treat it like an ordinary day-job than to treat it like a glorious game the way you once did. He's become increasingly warlike, even unhinged by paranoia when it comes to Russia...

But he's not like you were. He may go about it the wrong way, but he fancies himself – and always has – as a hero. Some little working-class hero who tries to do the right thing. Not like you – you never proclaimed to be anything of the sort. All of your wars have been fought out of either greed or hypocrisy.

Then you stopped fighting and he took up your mantle and went on without you. He invites you to join him from time to time, though. You always refuse because you insist that you're past all that now. You're not young like him anymore.

You opened your eyes.

Still, something stirred.

—

America, halfway through stretching his arms and his wings and still in his pyjamas, stopped dead at the kitchen door.

England, his back to him, was busy at the counter making himself a cup of tea. That wasn't surprising. The time wasn't, either – in fact, this was early for America to be up these days. England generally wasn't a late riser, so to see him in the kitchen at the ass-crack of dawn wasn't unusual.

However, he wasn't in his pyjamas or his flannel robe or even in slacks and a shirt and some kind of cardigan or sweater-vest.

England must have heard him because he turned to him, sipping at his tea.

"Good morning," he said pleasantly. "There's still plenty of hot water. Would you like some coffee?"

"Uh..." America couldn't get much further than that; instead he gave a mute nod and drifted to the kitchen table, sinking silently into a chair.

He didn't take his eyes off England. He couldn't. It had been so long since he had seen him in uniform that he was almost fascinated by it.

England, as usual, was a hypocrite about the whole thing. He was so very precise about the exact way his tea was made but he didn't bother with any trivialities about the manner in which he spooned instant coffee granules into a mug, splashed in some milk and barely let the hot water settle before he put the whole ensemble down on the table with so much force that a little slopped over the side and America jumped.

Ah. America winced inwardly. England wasn't in a good mood _at all_. That airy tone of his was a sarcastic act – America could tell by his very body language that he was, in fact, royally pissed off.

Oh, and there _was_ the whole uniform thing.

"So, um..." America sheepishly pulled his messy coffee towards him. "Is, uh... is this about... Argentina?"

England had the good grace to smile at him, at least.

"Am I that easy to read?" he asked over his tea. His eyes were very dark and his tone was dismissive. "How is the coffee?"

"How...?" America blinked, then glanced down at his mug. "Oh, it's... I haven't—"

"I expect it's awful," England interrupted absently. "I'm afraid it's not my strong point." He looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. "Bugger. Look, America... I'm—"

"You're going to go kick Argentina's ass," American finished for him glibly. "I know. You're making it kind of obvious." He lifted his mug and took a sip. It _was_ awful but he managed to refrain from shuddering. "You know, though – it's kind of nice to see you finally snapped out of your funk."

"That's an interesting way of putting it," England murmured. He drained his tea and went to rinse his cup. "I'm not going to ask you to come. It wouldn't be fair."

"And you're not going to call me a selfish prick?" America feigned surprise.

"You _are_ a selfish prick," England hummed, "but I have my standards and I promised myself that this is one war I'm not going to drag you into."

"Well..." America looked at his poorly-made coffee for a while. It reminded him of the trenches. "...Just remember that I've still got your back, okay?"

England faltered for a moment, turning to him.

"...I know," he said after a moment, his voice very quiet. "You're always at my back – sometimes in a rather more disconcerting manner than others, but still."

America grinned; rested his chin on his hand and looked at England appreciatively again.

"New uniform?" he asked.

"Yes. New regulations. It's been a while, you know."

"Yeah, I know." America nodded towards England's chest. "No officer's belt?"

"Only for decorative purposes these days – dress uniforms and the like. They _are_ rather impractical, I have to admit."

"Huh." America arched an eyebrow. "Well, either way, I'm really thinking about dragging you back upstairs to give you a proper fond farewell."

"As delightful as that sounds, I'm afraid you are going to have to put such thoughts on hold for now," England replied briskly. "I really need to shove off if I'm going to get anything done this morning."

America was honestly a little disappointed despite having known that he'd be shot down.

"Can't blame a guy for trying," he sighed.

"Oh, you're very trying, believe me," England replied. He had put his cup away and was starting out of the kitchen. "Make sure you wash out your mug when you're done drinking that mud of yours."

"It's only mud because you made it," America muttered, taking another mouthful of it nonetheless.

England gave a noncommittal snort as he passed him. His mind was clearly elsewhere – most likely on what the biggest gun he could get his hands on was. _This_, America could tell already, was England's kind of war. Nothing ideological, nothing apocalyptic, just plain old scrapping it out with whatever was to hand. It was odd but there was really nothing gentlemanly about the way England liked to fight – which made it a little disconcerting that England had the nerve to call _him_ heavy-handed and barbaric in his methods.

After all, even all these years later, America had to admit that he and Russia had still yet to actually lay a hand on one another.

England was out of the kitchen. America watched him over his shoulder, past his wing; that uniform was pretty flattering on him, really. Not quite as much as the one he'd worn during World War II (that one had honestly fitted him slightly better – despite the rationing, he still seemed to have had a little more weight on him back then), but it looked good. It was a nice change.

"God save," America said.

England didn't answer.

Maybe he hadn't heard him.

—

You looked at the blood on him.

He came in the door and you looked up from your radio and took off your headphones – you were listening to Michael Jackson or AC/DC or something – and saw the blood on him and it was all you could look at.

He wasn't swaying, though; wasn't staggering. In fact, he looked alright. _Better_ than alright.

He smiled at you.

"It's not mine," he said.

You sprang up and descended on him; you were a jumble of bones and feathers and glasses half hanging off as you gathered him close and laughed. You were so happy to see him.

He felt different, too. Everything about him. He smelt of someone else's blood and his grip was strong as he wrapped his arms around your back. Different because he was suddenly the same. How wonderful. You wouldn't have to despise him anymore.

"Welcome back, England," you said, squeezing him tightly, burying your face in his shoulder and trying not to cry. "I missed you."

* * *

"Did you shake hands with him?"

"Yes."

"Nicely?"

America gave a snort.

"Look, it's over, okay?" he said irritably, looking away. "No more Cold War, no more me and Russia glaring at each other across the UN table or sending explosive stuff in the mail or threatening to plunge the entire world into Nuclear Armageddon." He looked at England sidelong. "Isn't that enough?"

England rolled his eyes and shared a sceptical look with Canada, who was standing at America's other side.

"It's good enough, I suppose," he muttered. "As long as it really _is_ over, America."

"It is," America assured him gently. "Look at that."

He tapped England's shoulder and then used the same finger to point in the direction of what had previously been the Berlin Wall. Russia was standing with his sisters and the Baltics on what had once been one side of it – _his_ side. On the other side – the Western European side – stood Germany, closely flanked by Italy, Austria and Hungary.

Prussia, who had tried to jump the wall before but never succeeded, was giving his brother a hug that was somewhat aggressive but still somehow genuinely heartfelt. Germany looked embarrassed but was returning the embrace nonetheless.

"Yeah," Canada agreed softly. "It's over."

At that exact moment, as though sensing the topic of their conversation, Russia looked up and met their gazes. His face was expressionless. England and Canada both glanced nervously at America, wondering how he would react.

He turned away as though nothing had happened, put his arms around his companions and began to lead them away.

"Hey, let's have pancakes!" he babbled. "Canada, you make them, okay? Let's go to France's house, he'll let you use his stuff!"

Canada protested in his usual mild manner and America argued him into submission with altogether far too much ease and England smiled at his effort.

It wasn't going to be easy, but America seemed to have recovered from yet another sickness (his worst yet) and now the world could go forward again without the promise of destruction to hold it back.

* * *

"So, yeah," I say, "it's completely worth investing in computers, right? I mean, almost everyone has one it – it's _1996_, for God's sake—"

"Ah," France purrs down the line, "I bet I can think of _one_ person who hasn't lifted his cute little nose from his six-inch-thick book long enough to have even noticed that computers exist, hm, dear Amérique?"

I know exactly who he's talking about, but I'd used the opportunity of him talking to take another bite of my burger so I can't speak for a moment.

"Well," France sighs, taking advantage of my inability to answer due to my having my mouth full of Big Mac bought from the Drive-Thru on the way over, "I suppose I cannot think what Angleterre would do with a computer anyway besides search the internet for fellow deluded individuals also convinced that fairies live at the bottom of their garden." He pauses thoughtfully. "Or perhaps look up porn. He can be surprisingly perverted at times, non?"

"Yeah, more like that's what _you_ do," I say, swallowing. Not that I'm totally springing to England's defence or anything – a fact is a fact.

France doesn't try to deny it; he just laughs.

"Why of course, mon cher," he agrees. "Is that not what the internet is for?"

"No," I reply firmly. "It's for investing stocks and sending emails and creating online businesses and buying stuff."

France gives another sigh.

"So level-headed all of a sudden, Amérique," he mutters. "So business-minded. It is quite unbecoming of you."

I'd stick my tongue out at him if only I wasn't talking to him on the phone. He doesn't give me time to come up with a hilarious and awesome reply, however.

"Well, I must be going. The meeting starts again in ten minutes and I was hoping to get myself some coffee."

"Okay," I reply airily. "I'll see you in ten, then. Ciao!"

"_Au revoir_, faire le pitre," France replies smoothly, and he hangs up.

Huh. Guess I messed that up. I always thought 'Ciao' was French. It must be Spanish, then.

"Please tell me," I hear that clipped, stuck-up accent of his from behind me, "that you were not just doing what I think you were doing."

"What do you think I was doing?" I ask, turning to him. Or, at least, I tried to ask. I don't think it came out sounding quite like that.

His green eyes narrow at me.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," he orders; "and I mean to say that I sincerely hope you were not having a phone conversation with France on that construction block you like to call a mobile phone."

"Cell phone," I correct, "and so what if I was?"

"America, France is down the hall by the vending machines. I just _saw_ him. Talking, I might add, on _his_ construction block of a mobile phone."

"_Cell_ phone," I correct again, "and yeah, he was talking to me. What's the problem with that?"

"Tell me," England sighs, kneading his forehead, "what part of "France is just down the hall" don't you understand?"

"I know he's down the hall," I say irritably. "He told me when I called him."

"_Called_ him?" England drops his hand from his face and stares at me. "Good lord, America, you could just raise your voice a little and he would hear you perfectly clearly. In fact, I expect he can hear every word of this conversation—"

"So right, Angleterre," France hums gleefully, appearing around the open door. "Come now, mon ami, when are you going to haul your old-fashioned little backside out of the Middle Ages and catch up with the rest of us? No computer, no cell phone—"

"_Mobile_ phone," England corrects icily, "and I think I shall keep my "old-fashioned little backside" rather firmly away from anywhere in which _you_ are within groping distance."

"A wise decision," France concedes with a slow nod.

"He _did_ invent punk," I point out, finally pushing down the aerial on my cell. "That's not exactly old-fashioned."

England smirks, giving me a satisfied, appreciative nod; but France simply pulls a face.

"But still, so unattractive, non?" He laughs. "I never thought I would say that I prefer you the way you normally look, Angleterre, but take it from Big Brother that all those piercings did nothing for those monstrosities you like to call your eyebrows—"

That's it. They're fighting again, completely ignoring me.

That's fine. Five minutes until the meeting starts up again, which means I have enough time to check on my tamagotchi and make sure that the little guy hasn't chirped himself to death again.

Last time he died, England kicked me out of the bedroom because I wouldn't stop crying—

Actually, come to think of it, this isn't even the same tamagotchi. England threw the other one out of the window (which is totally rude for someone who frets about his fairies and potted begonias whenever we go away on conferences like this).

He claims to hate almost every kind of "stupid, infernal, utterly pointless gadget" Japan and I like to make these days, but I can't help thinking that he wouldn't have thrown my tamagotchi out of the window to meet a cold concrete death if only he'd known that I'd named the little fella Winston.

* * *

"I wanted to be together with you for this."

"I know." Wedging the phone between his chin and his shoulder, England looked absently at the clock. Seven minutes until midnight. "But it can't be helped. We're nations. We have duties, and this... this is one of those times where duty comes first."

"I know, but..." America huffed deeply on the other end of the line. "...I've never seen a millennium before. I'm barely half a millennium old. I wanted to be with you, I wanted to kiss you when the clock struck eleven, in the year 1999, and hold it until the twelfth chime had died away. I wanted to have you in my arms at the end of one century, of one entire millennium, and still have you in them at the beginning of another."

"...I know." England cradled the cordless phone, rocking it like one might rock a child to sleep. "I wanted... I wanted that too. I wanted to hold your hand through your first millennium – I wanted to open the door for you. I wanted... no, I _want_ to be with you, I _do_, but—"

"I know, I know," America interrupted, half-laughing. "Duty as a nation first. We have to be in our respective lands with our own bosses and our own people to welcome in the Year 2000."

"I'm sorry," England said quietly. "I am. Part of me still says I should have told the lot of them where to stick it and booked a flight to Washington DC anyway."

"No, not Washington. Virginia. James Town. Or... or maybe Plymouth Rock. Massachusetts. I don't know. But somewhere. Somewhere new and old all at once. Old and new. Just us."

"That sounds lovely," England sighed, going to the office window and looking out at the jam-packed area around the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben. Everything was lit up and people were jostling and shrieking and waving things that glowed neon around. Less than five minutes to go.

"...Well," America said on the other side after a long moment of silence, "I should probably let you go. It's four minutes to seven here, which means it's almost midnight there, right?" He gave a little laugh, a genuine one. "Man, that's pretty freaky. You're going to see Y2K a whole five hours before me!"

"Yes," England said absently, putting his scarf back on one-handed as he held onto the phone. "Listen, America... I'm going to go outside, but stay on the line."

"How're you going to do that?"

"It's a cordless phone."

"Ha." He could practically _see_ America's smug grin. "Modern technology, right?"

"Shut up or I shall hang up on you and not speak to you until the next millennium."

"Very funny, England. You wouldn't do that to me."

"It would only be for two minutes." England went out of the office and down several flights of stairs, praying the line didn't get too bad or cut out; even at the best of times transatlantic calls weren't always entirely reliable. "Can you still hear me?"

"Loud and clear, Houston."

"Enough of that," England said fondly. "Must you brag even on the phone?"

"_All_ the time."

"How about a New Millennium's Resolution?"

"What's that?"

"_Stop it_."

"No can do. I'll be just as awesome in the Year 2000 as I am right now."

"I was afraid of that." England looked up at Big Ben just as the Westminster Quarters began to sound. "Can you hear it?"

"Yes. Guess this is it, then."

"Mm." England observed his boss and several of his subordinates glancing about, presumably in search of him; he was suddenly struck with the desire to ignore his duty and ducked behind a telephone box as the chimes began to strike. "Still there?"

"Yeah." America sounded puzzled. "Um... what are you doing?"

"What I should have done yesterday." Still clutching the phone, England ventured half out from behind the red box as his people began to chant in unison the countdown from ten.

"I can hear them!" America cried on the other end of the line. "England, why aren't you counting?"

"Oh," England said absently, looking up at the great round yellow face of Big Ben, "I've decided to wait. This is good enough, being immersed amongst my people, but..."

The clock struck twelve and the entire crowd seemed to explode in a mingled cheer of "Happy New Millennium!". Streamers flew and people embraced and fireworks soared into the sky, millennium colours of purple and silver and British colours of red, white and blue.

"England, England!" America chirped down the line. "Happy New Millennium! I heard them! It's 2000 in Britain now!" He hesitated, noting the lack of response. "...England?"

Red, white and blue.

England hung up the phone.

—

"Well, I'd have liked a little warning," America said. "I thought the line cut out or something, but..."

He glanced down at England, who was trying not to let the jet-lag get to him. God only knew how many strings he'd had to pull to get himself here in less than five hours.

"It's nice to know that you still do crazy stuff every now and then," America finished.

England looked at the clock. Seven minutes until midnight. He pulled at America's arm.

"It reminded me of that day," he said. "Victory – everyone celebrating a great achievement together. _We_ celebrated that together."

"Yeah, against the wall in the map room."

"So lead the way." England ran his hand over America's wings. "Let's celebrate the new millennium with a memory of the old one."

(It wasn't a map room but it was beautiful, white marble arches and red carpet and a huge window. Upon the mantelpiece sat a mounted globe crafted of various precious stones and with rivers and country names picked out in pure gold.

Inside him, America kissed him on the eleventh chime and held it until the twelfth had been lost to the cheering of the crowds and the roar of fireworks in red, white and blue.

"Happy New Millennium," England replied.)

* * *

"Are you ready?"

America looked up at me, blinking owlishly behind his glasses. Even as he gave me his (supposed) attention, his fingers still moved over the grease-smeared touch screen of that infernal contraption of his, that blasted iPhone, his apparent pride-and-joy-and-love-of-his-life. One of these days I truly expect him to come in with photographs of his wedding and subsequent honeymoon with the thing.

"For what?" he asked.

I sighed in utter exasperation.

"Your _speech_?" I reminded him scathingly. "The one on the recession doing a fine job of robbing us all blind? The one that you will be giving in less than fifteen minutes?"

"Oh!" An awful look of sudden comprehension dawned on his face. "Yeah, yeah, I got it covered. No worries, okay?"

I wasn't convinced.

"Define "covered"," I impressed testily."Please don't tell me that I just reminded you about it. You've had three weeks to prepare."

"No, no," he says breezily. He held up his iPhone and waved it practically in my face, forcing me to step back. "It's all on here. I totally wrote it all out and everything. With bullet-points, even!"

I sighed. iPhone front and centre, as usual. It is, of course, painfully ironic but oh-so-typical that he would give a speech about the damage of the recession to all of our economies whilst reading his notes from a three hundred dollar gadget.

I really would like to throw that blasted thing out of the window sometimes. He is enslaved by it – controlled by media so readily at his fingertips. Not _only_ does it distract him during meetings with all of its games and applications and instantaneous access to Google (yes, I saw you looking up what a "hustru" was during Sweden's last speech) and not _only_ does he clog up _my_ phone with pictures and postcards that he sends me, followed by another twelve text messages asking if it went through, I have honestly lost count of the times during which I – often half-undressed by this point – have been made to play second fiddle to The Sacred iPhone when it rings with Japan's personalised tone and America more or less physically _drops_ me in order to answer it and squeal down the line about some new Nintendo DS game, the purpose of which is to collect jewel-encrusted vegetables for some banal reason or other.

(While we're at it, I am going to ring Japan's _neck_ if he doesn't stop sending America that wretched excuse for music he likes to call "Vocaloid" – I and Austria both, I think, given that America doesn't seem to understand the basic concept of headphones.

I don't think I want to live in the modern world sometimes. It wears me out.)

"What?"

His voice snapped me out of my pleasant daydreaming as to what I would like to do to that iPhone if only he would leave it unattended for the three seconds it would take me to steal it.

"Hm?" I replied, looking at his fingers. They were still at work on the screen. He didn't even need to look at it.

"You're not going to be all pissy about this, are you?" he asked. "At least I actually _wrote_ a speech this time!"

"Well," I said, trying my hardest not to sound _too_ "pissy", "yes, I will give you that, but honestly—"

"Hey, faggot America!"

Romano, his usual rudeness firmly in place, cut me off as he approached, dragging his hapless brother by the sleeve. Spain, I noted, was not far behind them, smiling that usual vapid, brainless smile of his.

(It is, of course, merely another instance of irony in its most perfect form for Romano to observe America and I in conversation, deem it therefore acceptable for him to address America as a "faggot", and all the while have his Germansexual younger brother and his own shag-buddy, my favourite Spain the Brainless, in tow. I have never really been able to decide if Romano is actually fairly witty beneath his idiocy or is, in fact, merely comprised of idiocy.)

"Lend me your iPhone for a second," Romano demanded, already holding out his hand to receive it.

This, again, is typical of Romano; there is little substance to his brashness and, if America had refused, I highly doubt that Romano would actually have put up much of a fight. Now _Prussia_, on the other hand, would demand the use of America's iPhone in an identical manner, but he would be in complete and utter earnest.

(In fact, let's be honest: Prussia would have snatched the thing out of America's hand by that point. ...Which _might_ be an idea. I could probably easily persuade Prussia to make off with the wretched thing and drop it from the tenth floor window into the car-park—)

"I want to show these idiots something," Romano grudgingly went on by way of explanation when America just blinked at him. "You have internet access, right?"

"Sure," America replied, smiling as he handed it over. "But be quick, I need it for my speech in ten minutes."

Romano took the iPhone and Italy and Spain gathered around him to look at the screen as he searched for whatever he was looking for. America and I shared a look; I must have appeared slightly bewildered, for he grinned and shrugged at me.

Romano was fast in finding what he wanted, pointing to the screen and declaring something first in clipped Italian to his brother and then in more irritable Spanish to Spain, who merely tilted his head and beamed wider before leaning towards Romano and whispering something in his ear.

Romano flushed red and coughed in an attempt to compose himself as Italy, who had apparently heard what Spain had said but not understood it, gave the pair of them that usual clueless look of his before wandering off, presumably in the direction of Germany.

(As an aside, it must be noted that both Italy and America seem to share an uncanny knack for finding Germany and myself no matter where we happen to be. I would say the same of France, although I rather think that what France possesses is instead merely an ability to sense body warmth within a one hundred mile radius. It is unfortunate for Germany and I, then, that neither of us are ever more than one hundred miles away from him.)

Romano made to hand the dratted iPhone back; I saw my chance as I observed the languidness with which America reached out to take it and seized the thing from Romano's slack hand.

"Hey!" America was immediately indignant, finally leaping up from the chair in which he'd been rocking with the air of a bored schoolboy. "England, I _need_ that!"

I swayed out of his reach as he tried to snatch it from me, putting it behind my back. Romano and Spain seemed somewhat intrigued by this exchange, but I ignored them and so did America.

"I disagree," I said levelly.

His eyes narrowed dangerously but he didn't speak.

"Let me ask you something," I went on, "and give me an honest answer."

He raised his eyebrows and folded his arms.

"Go on, then," he said coolly.

I took the iPhone out from behind my back again and held it up, just out of his range.

"Can you do your speech without this?" I asked.

He looked at me for a long moment, meeting my gaze. I knew he was on the verge of throwing himself on his knees to beg for the safe return of his beloved iPhone and probably offer some kind of ransom; but I also knew that he was seriously considering my question. I was, after all, not inquiring as to whether or not he desired the thing.

I was asking if he really _needed_ it.

Let it never be said that I do not believe in him when it counts. I have seen enough of him over the course of his history to know that he is not as much of a fool as he likes to play.

"Yes," he said finally; confidently. He pushed up his glasses and smiled at me. "Yes, I can."

* * *

YES THAT WAS TOTALLY AN OBAMA REFERENCE

The first segment of this is, of course, the funeral of Sir Winston Churchill in the January of 1965. For some reason, (Red) China refused to send a representative to attend. Nobody is really sure why.

**1903** – The Wright Brothers fly their first plane for about a minute somewhere in Ohio.

**Shilling, crown, half-crown, sixpence** – Old forms of British currency that went out of use in the 1970s when the system shifted to the decimal. Since this segment is set in the 1960s, those are the coins England would be familiar with. All are silver.

The section where England gets his war gladrags on, much to America's surprise, is the Falklands Wars of 1981, fought between the UK and Argentina over some menial dispute or other. The Argentineans got massacred.

Also in here is, of course, the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989.

**Faire le pitre** – French for "fool" or "idiot"

**Hustru** – Swedish for "wife"

(Who Googled it?)

iPhone? I should have made it the iPad... Seriously, though, isn't it just a giant iPhone? What's the point...? O.o


	7. VII: The Dawning Of

VII – The Dawning Of

It was like that time America had taken him about the waist and flown him up to touch the moon – or as close as England would ever get, anyway.

Maybe, anyway. Maybe it was like that. The circumstances were different. America had been zipping up his bomber jacket outside, one foot propped against his Harley Davidson; England had paused to admire the gleam of the bike in the sun. America noticed him immediately and looked over his shoulder at him – his glasses and his hair and his eyes and his smile gleamed too.

"You want to come for a ride?" he asked, his voice lyrical, melodic. "She's brand new."

Of course England had refused. Of course America had laughed and teased him that he was only saying no to be difficult. Of course England had spluttered in annoyance and batted ineffectually at America as he was grabbed anyway.

"Hold on tight," America whispered over the revving of the engine.

_Or you'll fall and break your neck and shatter into a thousand pieces._

The sky was endless and the road was endless, wide and blue like his eyes and ever westward like his mind. American-made, it carried them across his lands as though his dream given a form, a shell, an engine; the dust that had once filled his lungs kicked up behind them and the wind that had flown first _his_ flag and then his own whipped past them and the dry earth that they had fought over and on was scarred by their pursuit. This was everything of him, captured better in a single moment, an experience, a breath, than in the entire chronicle of his history. This was what they had fought for – not just America himself in his Wars of Independence and 1812, but all of them together in the Teens and Forties. No matter who blamed who for what, no matter who was Communist or Capitalist, no matter who was an empire or nothing but a small colony, this was the sum of their struggle. This was freedom.

Perhaps not a brand of it to suit everyone. A Harley Davidson on the open road would not please Russia, it would not please Germany, it would probably not please Japan. But it was a symbol, like his League of Nations, like his Lady Liberty, like his wings. America so rarely had anything to teach that even when he did, nobody ever thanked him for his lesson.

Not even England.

They left the bike at the side of the road and went into an open field. America scampered ahead with his arms flung out wide as he had done when he was a child. England followed him at a slower pace, unknotting his tie, walking with the stride of a newcomer to the New World. His suit was well-cut and neatly-fitting, lightweight, made on a machine – hardly what he had been wearing the first time he had laid eyes on America, no coarse hand-stitched shirt or heavy velvet tunic. He slipped his hand into his trouser pocket and turned off his phone.

America whirled towards him with the easy grace of a dancer, so unlike his usual heavy-handedness; his dog-tags clinked and glinted against his dirty white T-shirt. His old flight jacket was open, ragged at the hem, and his jeans looked about a size too small for him, the button straining a little. He always looked so much more presentable in uniform.

He always looked at his best when dressed to kill. It made sense. He had been shaped by war – he become free by it, he had become powerful by it, he had become hated by it.

America was smiling at him, though.

"This was a battlefield once," he said easily, coming back to England, winding his arms around him. "Do you remember?" He laughed, feeling England start to kiss his neck. "Ugly, aren't I?" He waved his hand at the high blue sky. "I know all that crap, you know, about being beautiful for spacious skies and amber waves, but it's just poetry written by lovestruck patriots. We're all hideous, aren't we? Scarred by wars, ruined by ideologies—"

"You don't know what you're talking about," England interrupted gently. "Hush now."

He took him down to the grass and made love to him on his land and beneath his sky; in the end America couldn't look at him anymore and threw his arm over his eyes. England laughed because no-one ever believed him when he mentioned offhand that sometimes America could be quite shy and suddenly felt that he should be kind to him.

"Oh, America," he said sincerely, "you are beautiful to me."

* * *

The door banged open. England, halfway through explaining a proposed attack on Italy to France at the chalkboard, looked up. France followed suit, as did Russia and China.

America was standing in the open doorway. He was in full uniform and he was wearing a brand new leather flight jacket; his wings were presumably tucked safely underneath it. There was a thin layer of snow on his hair and his shoulders, brought in from the December cold.

He wasn't smiling.

"When do we move out?" he asked icily, striding into the room and letting the meeting room door bang closed behind him.

"Amérique, how _good_ of you to join us," France purred sardonically.

"We are in no position to mobilise against Japan at the moment," England said sharply, cutting in before America could snap anything at France.

America calmly met his gaze.

"I know," he replied. "I can wait. I meant in general. I'm all-in. Germany and Italy declared war on me too."

Russia muttered something that sounded distinctly like "Imagine that"; China gave a grave nod in reply. He knew the feeling, after all – he and Russia had both been attacked by those they had formerly counted as friends, allies or even brothers.

England appeared surprised at America's calm acceptance of the fact that Japan wasn't first on the Allied Hit-List; but, after a moment's pause, he nodded and beckoned to America to come and take a seat next to France.

"If you're willing to station in Britain, you can consider this to be your first mobilisation."

America nodded, took his seat and didn't say anything else for the rest of the meeting.

Japan probably didn't realise his folly, but he never should have awoken America from his safe little nest.

—

America stood at the meeting's end but did not make much effort to leave, instead shrugging off his jacket. England, leaving with France, paused to watch him, seeing the flash of white on the back of the new leather. As America threw it over the back of his chair, he could see that it was a '50', a little crooked, presumably painted on by America himself in the tradition of flight jacket art.

He motioned for France to go on ahead and stepped back into the room, watching America spread out his wings. They were slightly ragged, some of the feathers bedraggled and even burnt. What did he think he was, angel of vengeance?

"Thankyou for coming," England said softly. "With your help... we might be able to win now."

(No, not vengeance. Angel of _death_. Japan shouldn't have awoken him.)

America looked at him. He looked angry but he also looked very tired; England could sympathise with that. They didn't call it "The Blitz" for nothing, after all.

"It's not fair," America said at length. "I wanted to stay out of it. I tried to. I helped you because I didn't want Germany to beat you to a pulp simply because you had nothing to defend yourself with but I also didn't want..."

England shook his head.

"I don't know what Japan was thinking," he muttered.

America looked up at him, his eyes narrowed.

"You're the one who started this," he said. "You and France. You declared war—"

"What other choice did we have?" England snapped. "Let Germany overrun Europe?"

"Hasn't he done that anyway?" America asked balefully, looking away again ruefully.

England sighed. America was taking a childish approach to this but he was, in many ways, still a child. He had been attacked and he didn't like it. He hadn't been attacked since England had burned the White House, as a matter of fact. He had mobilised for selfish reasons but England was in no position to accuse him of such. Better to let him sulk if it won them the war. Besides, he would come around. He wasn't wicked, wasn't malicious. He had helped England primarily out of kindness, after all.

"What did you do it?" America persisted suddenly. "Over Poland, over Czechoslovakia... England, why did you start another war?"

"Because it was the right thing to do."

"No—"

"_Yes_," England insisted, suddenly feeling exhausted. "Yes, it was, America. No matter the cost, no matter what happens, there was no other option than to stand up to Germany."

"And the price?"America leaned towards him. "You're going to lose your hegemony and your empire. _Why_, England? You're such a bully yourself, so why are you only ever selfless at the wrong time? Why give up _everything_ to chase a false hope of peace?"

"Because," England sighed, closing his jade eyes, "it was the right thing to do."

* * *

It was the most ruined that England had ever seen his wings.

The night after it happened, England came to him not as his lover but as his ally. America was lying on his back on the floor of his room in the dark, his glasses off and clutched tightly in the hand of the arm he had thrown over his eyes. He was barefoot, wearing jeans and a white button-down, open to bare his chest. At his throat the silver chain of his dog-tags gleamed like a line to indicate "cut here if running with shears" and Lady Liberty – Sister of Grace – moved like the lace-gloved fingers of the tide as he breathed.

His wings were bent and broken and bloody; almost all of the feathers were gone on each of them and those that remained were burnt and brittle.

America said nothing until England sank to his knees next to him.

"Don't touch me," he said; flatly, tiredly.

England was frustrated more than he was offended – he wanted to tell America to let him heal his wounded heart – but he nodded.

"I won't if you don't want me to," he said. "But I'm here."

_Little one, the sky is falling – but I will keep you in my keeping._

America gave a nod, still not uncovering his eyes.

"Yes," he said quietly, "that's alright. Stay."

—

It had been arrogant of him to suppose that he might have healed America's hand-grenade heart with little more than his company; America was grateful for his friendship, for his allegiance and his loyalty – for he had called him to be true to him – but it was not enough to make him recover.

After three days, America completely disappeared.

For two more days, England did not pursue him; America would come back when he was ready, of that he was certain. It was only natural that he should wish to hide from the world – it was the world that had done this to him, after all, his superpowerdom, his position, his hegemony.

England had predicted it in 1945 in the map room, small and light enough to be supported almost entirely by the upward thrusts of America entering him; he had warned then that America would be hated.

He had known because he had tasted it before.

("But I'm worried," Canada said gently, stirring his tea distractedly. "Won't you go to him?"

"I did."

"Again." Canada looked at England pleadingly. "You're his closest ally. He won't come back for anyone else."

England looked at America's brother for a moment.

"And do you know where he is, Canada?")

The sun was bright and bold on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. England ascended them with the care that he imagined America had probably done before him, pausing on the last one. Before the great man in his chair stood America, in uniform, his back to England, to his own lands. The sun slanted in all over him, over his shoulders and back and wings.

They had reformed. They stretched out behind him, the outmost tips of the longest feathers almost touching the marble floor of the platform; larger than before, longer, more beautiful.

"America," England began; but his rhyme and reason failed him. He had nothing more to say.

America turned to him, his wings following the shape of his movement, rustling like paper and flowing like water. He smiled. It wasn't sincere, but it was a start.

"Hey, England," he said serenely. "Hope I didn't worry you."

England couldn't say anything. He wanted to run to him but he didn't dare – not because he was afraid, but because...

...He felt that he had no place amidst what had saved America. He stepped back onto the step below, back into the sun, away from the platform. He returned the smile.

"You did," he said, "and your brother, too, but it doesn't matter. I understand that I was of no help to you." He held out his hand, his upturned palm catching the gold light, offering to lead America back into the sun. "However, if you want to go to war—"

"Yeah, it's your specialty, right?" America laughed as he left Lincoln and came over to England, his wings open behind him; he put his hand in his. "That's what I like about you."

"That only?" England asked wryly.

"Of course."

(America still felt fragile to him. It was to be expected. He had shattered into a thousand pieces and it would be a while before he put himself back together completely. England had tasted that before, too.

But it was a start.)

* * *

"Wh-what do you need?" America panted. "More... more weapons, more—_ah_, Jesus..."

"No, that's not... the Lend-Lease is—is fine, this is..." England sucked in a breath, looping his arm around America's neck and pulling him down close to kiss him; his knees pressed either side of America's ribs. "I-I mean..."

America's glasses were heavily misted, so much so that he wasn't looking through them; he reached blindly for the headboard to brace himself as he stilled and made England pause with him, satisfying his thirst of him. Their sudden ceasing of all movement save for the harsh fusion of their mouths made the slow rock and sway of the ship on the calm waves all the more obvious.

This was probably not the best time to be having this conversation – they were both incoherent, barely able to string a sentence together. However, what he wanted from America wasn't money, wasn't support or guns or grenades. This wasn't something he needed a signature for.

And, _for_ that reason, there seemed to really _be_ no better time or place than right now. This was, incidentally, the first time he had ever allowed America inside him – and the first time in a long time that he suddenly felt (remembered) that he loved him.

It made him surer than ever about his decision.

"Listen," he said, biting at America's bottom lip as they separated. "Listen to me, America – things... things are going to be different when this war is over. It's... it's likely that I won't be an Empire any... anymore... That is, I mean... to say that I won't be as I was..."

America, who had been kissing the spot below his ear, lifted his head; his eyes were wide.

"You... you mean you won't be...?"

"The world's superpower any longer," England sighed. It was a relief to say it – to share it. "It'll have to be... passed on to someone else, and between you and I, I can think... of several people I would rather did not fall into... possession of such a title..." He settled back against the sheets, reaching up and taking America's face in his hands. "If you still... want to stay out of this, that's alright, but you have to understand... that when it's over, the world will be different..."

America simply gave a mute nod and sat back, seeming bewildered by the turn his first time on top had taken.

"All of these loan programmes you have," England went on, finally seeming to recover his breath, "with us, particularly China and I... they're a boost to your economy. There is no doubt in my mind that you will be the most economically-sound of all of us by the time we manage to wrap this all up. You would have the resources at hand to take my place."

America suddenly shot him a bitter smile.

"Are you naming me as your heir, British Empire?" he asked softly, half-sarcastic.

But England didn't take the bait.

"Phrase it however you will," he replied. "The point is that the choice should be mine – I shouldn't have to suffer the position being wrested away from me by the likes of Germany. It's only natural that I would choose you, America."

"You're... putting a lot of faith in me," America said in a low voice, shaking his head out of England's grasp and looking away.

"I trust you."

America stiffened briefly; then his shoulders hunched. His heart thrummed hard beneath Lady Liberty. He still didn't meet England's gaze.

"More like you're just using me," he muttered.

"Well, that too."

America finally looked back at him, scowling; but England was smiling.

"A joke, America," he said mildly. "This is important. I can't afford to not trust you with something like this. You know that."

America gave a deep sigh, looking at the ceiling.

"Where would you like me to sign?" he asked at length.

"Nowhere." England sat up, pressed himself up against America as though to remind him what they were doing here, after all. "This isn't an official document – it's a promise, and unless your promise comes with a price the way your guns do, I think it can be committed just as safely to skin and to memory as to paper."

He coaxed him into another kiss; the rhythm of the ship on the quiet Atlantic rocked them back to the bed.

"Oh, America," he murmured, "welcome to your age, your century, your dawn."

("And tell me," America said softly, folding his wings and draping himself over England, who was already fast asleep, the worried lines in his face eased somewhat, "does your price come with a promise?")

* * *

"**Imagine that"** – For once, Russia actually wasn't being mean to America. He was saying "Imagine that" in reference to Germany's declaring war on the USA. Russia and Germany had, of course, been allies at the start of the war until Germany realised that it couldn't push any further west with immovable Britain in the way and so instead went east – into its own ally, Russia.

**50 on the back of America's jacket** – This might be why the anime version dropped this part of the design, but the USA actually didn't have 50 states during WWII. Alaska and Hawaii didn't become states until the 1950s. I left it in because I like the 50 on his jacket, inaccurate though it may be...

Since this chapter jumps around a bit, the segments, in order: Modern day (revisit to the first chapter), aftermath of Pearl Harbor, aftermath of 9/11, creation of the Atlantic Charter between the USA and UK in 1941. This last one was intended to govern the new world order, since the UK, already in massive war debt, knew it wouldn't be a superpower after the war was over and thought it would be better to make a deal with the US rather than to just wait and see what happened. There is no official signed document named the "Atlantic Charter", however.


	8. VIII: The Rest Of Our Lives

VIII – The Rest Of Our Lives

Oh, America, now is as good a time as any, isn't it?

Your history has been fast-paced and bloody, almost too caustic to be recorded; you appeared out of nowhere one day, birthed by our invasion, cultivated by your curiosity in what we had to offer you. When you chose me, I thought then that I would have years to shape you into perfection, that your entry into the world and the form which you took when doing so would be designed by me. When you were premature, ugly, not as I'd have liked, I thought to myself that it did not matter. Surely, surely, you were not for this world. You were not strong enough to survive in it – too rash, too naïve, too fragile. Never once did I think you would outlive me. For all those years, I was waiting for you to die.

And yet you did not.

(We can die, of course. You spent years resenting me for my decline – hating me for slowly dying. You know that we can die.)

We left the bike beyond the field – a field like the one that stretched endlessly, an ocean of greenery untouched by greed, across the breadth of your lands when first we arrived. Every now and then it's nice to be surprised that you and I still have areas unblemished like this. When I made love to you on this bed of your choosing as much as mine, I was making love to originality – your blue-sky-eyes and summer-grass-skin and soaring-eagle-wings, your mouth that mimics me and hands that build as I have and feet that tread my path. I took off your glasses that help you to better see the world, tucked your war-battered dog-tags beneath your collar, slipped my hands beneath your old flight jacket to touch your skin. Your accomplishments are admirable but I do not love you for them, nor do I merit you by them. I will sing your name but not your praises. Here, we are not on the world stage. This is Virginia, James Town, Plymouth Rock, Massachusetts, New England. Old and new – new and old. You and I and nothing else.

I stroke your hair absently as I look up at the sky. You fell asleep with your head in my lap some time ago, your wings stretched out in the sun on the grass behind us. You used to do this years ago, when you were a child – fall asleep in my arms, against my chest. There will be no disturbing you, and who am I to wake you? You're tired, aren't you, America?

Of course you're tired.

The sky. The clear, empty sky – high, cloudless, a deeper, purer blue than is paintable. I remember how you made them yours, first as you flew away from me and then as you returned. I remember how you broke through the heavens to pursue the moon. It is fitting that you have wings – that you are the anomaly to have been born with them. There is no stopping you.

Oh, America, forgive me. I did not know what I wanted for you or from you. I was young then, too, in those days when you were small enough to fit into my arms. I cared for you the only way I knew how – I apologise that it was the European way. Perhaps we did not invent war, but it has shaped each of us. The carnage of each of those world wars – the one ones that made the both of _us_ as we are now – began with Europe. Perhaps it is not strange that it was you who changed wars, however – you who mastered them, you who rewrote how they would henceforth be won. I myself took you down beneath the apple trees in the autumn, the dry leaves crackling beneath our feet, and taught you how to load a musket, how to fire and how to make a direct hit. I never should have put the thing in your hands but I wasn't to know then, was I? When at sunset you followed me home three steps behind, jumping in the footprints I left in the dust of the path, how was I to know that one day your own would eclipse them? Should I have foreseen you then in that orange light – should I have stopped and drawn your child self close to my side as your present self passed us, 1940s flight jacket and 1950s Cold War and 2000s iPhone out of place on a 1730s dirt road?

Would you have turned back to me and smiled, looked at me through the glasses I wouldn't have known you would later need; would you have made me some other promise that I wouldn't have believed until you forced me to?

I hope you have never resented that _I_ forced my hegemony upon you. With first my language and now my position in the world as it was one hundred years ago – we do not share the same blood and yet I created you. I predicted that you would be hated because I myself had been hated. All they will do is watch and wait for you to fuck up; and when you do they will shake their heads and say they saw it coming.

And yet you are not only hated. Are there not those who see you as a beacon of hope, a shining light in the darkness, who risk everything to come to you? Haven't you that dream in which every man will make his own way in life? America, all who would have you will take you – they will tear you apart in the end, I am sure, but you are too kind to shirk that sort of reputation. Are you not the Land of the Free? Don't you laugh and call yourself the melting-pot? Aren't you happy to have us write upon your skin in every language that we know, tattoo you with every culture that we own?

America the Beautiful. I will not sing your praises but _they_ will.

There is a breeze now. I remember the first time I felt it – you in my grasp, trustful enough to fall asleep. I thought then that these lands of yours would give you trouble, would cause you pain, but that wasn't true at all, was it? It was not your earth and your grass and your sky, not your mountains grand and your prairies and your seas, but rather us – _me_. Haven't I been awful to you? Of course, you have more than repaid the favour at times, but that is because you and I always share in kind. Enemies or allies, I will ever answer thee.

Even if you should never have trusted me.

I wonder where we go from here. I'm tired too, you know. If we could just lie here, you and I, forever in this field asleep beneath your sky, that would be alright with me. Let the tanks sink in the mud of No Man's Land with the musket I knocked out of your hand and the bombs that ruined Japan and the film from the cameras which captured the brutality of our favourite past-time. Let it all be swallowed up by this moment instead – this which could eclipse the rest of all time the way your footprints covered mine as you overtook me.

If I had never been as I was, would you be as you are?

You shift and sigh in your sleep, curling up closer against my side. What are you dreaming about now? What is your dream, America – is it the same thing as what everyone else _calls_ "the American Dream"?

Is it for the end of time? Is it the same as mine?

Oh, America, America, this has been a day to die for.

As has your history – I can hold it in my arms no longer.

* * *

SO... that's that.

Thankyou for bearing with me, haha. I didn't intend for it to get so long but I kept getting ideas for scenes and stuff, so...

Um, at this point I really don't have much else to say except that I am sad to be leaving the United States tomorrow. =( I had a lot of fun here... But, well, I made lots of new friends here and I'll always have my darling Narroch, so I'm sure I'll be back!

Posting Stateside for the last time,

RobinRocks xXx

To **Narroch**, _my_ "America": TOLD YOU IT WAS ON THERE FOR NO REASON WHATSOEVER. Okay, okay, I'll get out of your country already... XD

To **jesusofsuburbia2o2o**: Did you get them all? =)


End file.
